


They Never Say "Second Time's the Charm"

by slashsailing



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: 75th Hunger Games, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Background Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Falling In Love, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 08:50:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashsailing/pseuds/slashsailing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hunger Games AU:</p><p>Jim Kirk, tribute from district twelve, was not meant to fall in love with Leonard McCoy, tribute from district seven, but it did happen and this, well, this is the story of the two weeks proceeding the 3rd Quarter Quell, and their second time facing the trials and tribulations of the arena. Will they be so lucky to make it out a second time? Lightning never strikes the same place twice, but for one of our lucky tributes, it's going to have to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And Miles To Go Before I Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Heather, for giving it a once over and making it readable, and to Jenn who kept Jim's bow skills on point. Also to Rice, Hillary and Vickie who read it when it was half finished and gave me nice compliments which kicked me into gear to get it finished. 
> 
> The chapter titles are all from poems: Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Rober Frost, No Second Troy by Yeats, To the Conscripted of 1940 by Herbert Read, Oh Captain, My Captain! by Walt Whitman and Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night by Dylan Thomas.

Jim stands alone on the podium.

It’s the exact same place he found himself stood a year ago, looking out at the people of his district, the faces he’s grown up with for all his seventeen years, and wondering how the hell this is happening to him again.

“The tribute of district twelve is James Kirk,” Dehner says into the silence, nothing but the wind murmuring a response. Jim scoffs and looks down. He can feel Pike’s fingers curled around his forearm.

“You stupid boy,” he murmurs, mouth close enough to Jim’s ear that he can feel the heat of his breath. “You stupid, _stupid_ boy.”

“I’m sorry,” Jim whispers; Pike’s going to lose him this time and it’s not fair. Not fair for Pike to lose the only triumph he’s ever had, the only _real_ win he’s ever had. But Jim couldn’t watch Pike walk into the arena… He wouldn’t have been able to let Pike be reaped for the second time. To stand back and do nothing, Jim has learnt, is the worst crime of all.

Maybe even worse than the killing.

Jim Kirk is seventeen years of age, and in two weeks he will face his second Hunger Games.

So much for being a Victor.

The funniest thing is he’s only been back in twelve for six weeks, before that was his twelve day victory tour. Jim huffs out a laugh that startles one of the attendants standing to the back of the stage, then the first tear slips down his cheek.

He hopes it’ll be the only one.

He _knows_ it won’t.

“I need to see Sam,” he says, turning his head to offer Pike a glance at his devastated face. “Now.”

“Okay, Jim,” Pike nods. “I’ll get your mother too.”

“Okay.”

Jim lets Dehner walk him back into the Town Hall, she clutches at his wrist as she sucks in her tears. It’d be a shame for her to ruin her makeup, Jim thinks. She’s got her hair down today, tumbling in waves past her shoulders and down, somewhere in the lower-middle of her back. It’s blonde naturally, of that Jim’s sure, but today it’s blue. Ocean blue, maybe the shade of azure a poet would liken Jim’s eyes to. She leads him into a little room, the same small office-type space he was kept in last year.

The longest hour of his life.

“You’ve only got ten minutes,” Pike says upon entering the room. His mother is almost being held upright by Sam’s strong arm around her shoulder. He would be better for this, Jim thinks. It’s the exact same thought he had last year. But Sam is twenty-one already, and he evaded the reaping.

“Something about this feels wrong,” Jim say without hesitation, “it's like they wanted me back in.”

“They?” Sam questions, brows drawing together, mouth nothing more than a thin, unimpressed, purse of the lips. He’s trying not to cry, he’s trying to be the ‘big’ brother. But none of them have a choice in the roles they will have to play. Jim will have to walk into the Games with his head held high and Sam will have to wave goodbye to his little brother: for good, this time.

“Barnett, Komack, One…” Jim lists. “All of them. I was obviously going to get reaped again, wouldn't let Pike take the fall, they _knew_ that, must have, I don’t know why but they don’t want me out. They want me dead.”

“That’s just paranoia, Jim. It’s okay to be scared,” Sam murmurs, clasping more tightly to their mother as she weeps. What a broken woman, Jim thinks. So much loss. So much devastation.

More than one heart should ever have to bear.

“I mean it. They want me back in there. And this time, I won’t be coming out,” he has to pause as his mother begins to cry again in earnest, Sam doing his best to comfort her. “I’m sorry,” Jim says, “but it’s true.”

“You’ve won once, you can win again. The Quarter Quells are randomly chosen and prewritten, Jim, they haven’t done this to spite you, it’s just bad luck,” Sam counters, completely convinced.

“I can't believe that,” he says, because if that's true, then this all means nothing. “This Quell is a statement. That even the Victor’s aren’t invincible. They’re demonstrating their control.”

Jim knows Sam doesn’t believe him so he shrugs, kisses his mother’s forehead and waits for Pike to lead them out again.

He’s alone in the room, now, and he savours the silence, savours the safety. He closes his eyes and thinks of the meadow in Spring; lying in the dry grass at night, looking up at the black sky, trying to catch a glimpse of the stars through the smog. He exhales.

“You ready, Jim?” Pike asks, back in the room, eyes placed heavily on Jim – like they’re drilling holes.

“To die?” Jim asks with a scoff. “No. But if you’re asking if I can get on the train, then yeah, I guess. Not much choice, is there?”

“I’m sorry,” Pike says, “you should never have volunteered.”

“I couldn’t let you die, old man,” he smiles.

“You’ve got that little faith in me?” Pike returns the smile. “I did win once, you know.”

“Yeah,” Jim scoffs, “fifty years ago.”

“You’re an asshole, Kirk,” Pike sighs, “a real pain in my neck.”

“I try,” Jim says. “Hate to disappoint, after all.”

“Well then you don’t die in this arena, Jim. Because I’d be damn well disappointed.” Pike doesn’t look at him when he says it, as if he knows he can’t ask Jim to make that promise. They both know they’re fighting a losing battle; they just have to work out how to fight it in the best possible way. They need to figure out an angle.

Except, Jim doesn’t know how he managed to survive it the first time around, the only angle they had last time was survival. The only card they had to play was Jim’s ability with a bow, and, of course, the element of surprise. He was the underdog, the nobody from district twelve who was malnourished and only worth as much as he could pull from the mines.

But this time… Jim Kirk’s name is the freshest of them all, he is notorious for his archery. He is the newest Victor. There is no element of surprise, no one underestimating him. He is Jim Kirk, and they will eat him for breakfast.

“What’re we going to do?” Jim asks and Pike just shakes his head.

“We’re gonna get on the train.”

“And then?” Jim prompts.

“I don’t know,” Pike shrugs. “We need to review the other Victors, you need to know them inside out, every detail of how they played the games, of their strengths and weaknesses and then we need to change everything about you… about your game. Keeping them guessing was our tactic last time, why fix something that isn’t broken?”

“I’m not sure if I agree,” Jim admits, “but I trust you.”

“I’m gonna do my best to keep you safe, Jim,” Pike promises.

“I know you are,” Jim nods, “and I’m gonna do my best to stay alive.”

Their words are hollow, more so than they were last year. Jim’s not lucky by nature, dead father, depressed mother who loves her boys so much but just… just can’t show it, can’t get too close. Now he’s up for his second Hunger Games. It was almost an understatement for Sam to dub Jim’s affliction with “bad luck”, it’s even worse than that. It’s crippling luck. It’s almost no luck at all, like his life is just an empty void, an abyss that he is forced to dwell in. Like district twelve – he lives a life without stars.

Dehner taps on the door; Jim knows it’s her because her tap is embellished somewhat, as if she’s tapping out the beat of a classy new tune, something current in the Capitol. She steps in without begin invited, automatically straightening Pike’s shirt.

“We need to board the train,” she says. “The Capitol awaits.”

Jim can see that she’s trying her best to look like her usual plastic self, smile bright, too-white teeth almost blinding. But her painted smile is cracked at the edges and the elaborate grey khol highlighting her lower waterline is smudged.

It must be bad, if even Elizabeth Dehner can be moved to tears.

 

 

Jim flicks through the dossier on the tablet Pike has given him. Jim is the only Victor that will be going it alone in the Games; all the other districts had a surviving Victor of both genders, so everyone already has at least one ally to start with. Jim isn’t sure whether this gives him a head start, in terms of having no one to kill that he’s actually fond of, or whether it’s a severe disadvantage.

“Probably a bit of both,” is all Pike says. Jim keeps looking, rereading the files, making annotations and highlighting passages that he thinks he should try to remember.

“You need to talk to him,” Jim can hear Dehner and Pike arguing in the hallway of the train, the too-long corridor where everything echoes.

“He’s reading, just- let the boy have some time for it all to sink in,” Pike huffs.

“There is no time,” Dehner says, and she’s right.

Pike must agree with Jim’s assessment because he enters the sitting-room type set-up and pulls up a chair opposite where Jim is sat on the sofa.

“The only thing that will remain the same with these games, Jim, are the fact that the Careers will cluster together, that’s Singh and Naitra from district one, and Hendorff and Lester from two. It goes without saying that they’ll be your toughest competition, and you’re on your own, Jim, they’re probably going to go for you early,” he explains.

“It’ll be most people’s tactics,” Jim shrugs.

“But they’re all brutal in their own way,” Pike continues, “and they’ve all got alliances among them, they’re friends. And that’s your job when we get to the Capitol, to make friends.”

“I don’t _want_ to be their friends,” Jim frowns, “not if I’m only gonna have to kill them in the long run.”

“You need allies in that arena, Jim, this isn’t like last time, you won’t make it on your own,” Pike says, it’s a warning, and maybe a threat too.

Jim just nods, like maybe he agrees, that he’ll acquiesce to Pike’s request. But he doesn’t plan to, he’s going this one alone, just like the last Games. It’s more than likely he’ll be one of the first to go, but he wants as little blood on his hands when he does.

“Don’t look so defeated,” Pike scolds, even though he’s clapped a hand on Jim’s shoulder – to comfort, to steady, to guide.

“I could say the same to you,” Jim scoffs.

Pike squeezes Jim’s shoulder and sighs, sitting back in the chair and looking up at the ceiling. Jim watches Pike for a moment or two, before turning back to the tablet; he knows all the names on the list, last year Pike had made him rewatch the winning moments of every victor in the seventy-three Hunger Games that had preceded his own. He worries about Mitchell from district four, not only is he in fighting shape, pique physical condition and very, _very_ , smart, but he’s ready for this; his Games was the shortest on record. He’s an attacking force, and he couldn’t be stopped.

Jim thinks it might be okay to die by Mitchell’s hand. Honourable, even.

His counterpart is a woman called Janice Rand, she’s a fantastic swimmer and her Games were in the water, a huge reservoir which just a spattering of woodland on the perimeter – it was almost like the Game Maker wanted her to win. The Game Maker, Number One is the name she’s coined, always has favoured girls though, likes to see a female Victor emerge from her Games. To Jim, though, it just seems like a crude attempt at feminism… what allegiance can One really offer the girls she tries so hard to protect and aid?

Janice won the games two years before Mitchell, and Mitchell won about ten years ago. They’re adults, even though they were both only sixteen when they entered the Games. They’re not a couple, but they look like one, all glossy and perfect – Janice with the latest lash-extensions straight from the Capitol and Mitchell with his casually coiffed hair and bright-white smile.

They’re beautiful really.

Jim wonders what Janice’s throat will look like stained with blood… She can’t _really_ trust Mitchell, it seems an absurd thing to even attempt, in Jim’s mind. But who knows? Maybe alliances are the way to win this thing.

“Electronics and Power will no doubt try and stay together. That’s Sulu and Marcus from three, and Scott and Gaila from five,” Pike starts up again, pulling himself out of his reverie.

“Scott’s the oldest out of the Victors,” Jim recalls.

“And Sulu isn’t far behind him.”

“He volunteered, Scott, I mean,” Jim frowns. “For his mentor.”

“Archer was hitting on for sixty, he’d never have made it through the Games, Scotty’s a good man at heart. One of the best,” Pike says with a smile. He’s calling Jim a good man too, but Jim doesn’t feel like it. He doesn’t feel like much of anything at the moment, just an empty husk trying to take in every morsel of information. “They’ll be a good team though, Carol’s worked with weaponry all her life, it’s her advancements that have the Peacekeepers kitted out the way they are now. Scotty probably designed the most intricate workings of this train, in fact, he was meant to be on One’s team this year… That’s some irony.”

“Yeah,” Jim nods, “irony.” He looks down at the tablet again, taking in the buxom curves of the red head. “What about Gaila?”

“She painted herself green, hid in a moss pat for two weeks, sliced the heels of anyone who happened to cross her, they’d be unable to walk, she’d finish them off or let them drown in the moss,” Pike recounts. “She’s rather enchanting in person, although she finds it difficult to connect… She won’t actively hunt you though, it’s not her style.”

“Sulu’s good with a blade,” Jim remembers.

“Flawless,” Pike agrees, looking over at the tablet, telling Jim to continue.

“I remember seven, both of them,” Jim starts, “he didn’t kill a single person.”

“No,” Pike agrees, “he waited it out. McCoy’s a survivor, not a fighter, his family are healers, medicinal folk. He’s, ah, well he’s not competition, not really.”

“He was Chapel’s mentor,” Jim reminds, “and she won. The youngest winner ever.”

“He taught her how to stay alive, used her age to garner support, she was fourteen at the time. He’s was eighteen for his games, five years back, and no one cared about the kid from lumber… He made district seven _mean_ something, when Chapel was reaped the following year he strove to do everything he could for her. They’ll stick together and they’ll keep out of everyone’s way. The only person McCoy will be killing this year is himself,” Pike explains.

“You think Chapel would turn on him?” Jim asks.

“No, Jim,” Pike shakes his head, “I meant it literally, if they make it to the end, when McCoy hears that last cannon go off, he’ll kiss Christine on the forehead and throw himself off a cliff without hesitation.”

“Does he love her?”

“Only so far as he’d love his sister,” Pike replies.

“I don’t understand,” Jim admits.

“It’s different for McCoy, his integrity, his oath - to _do no harm_ \- means more to him than anything – and Chapel, well, she just happened to play on his heart strings. He volunteered himself this year so he could protect her, it was meant to be Phillip Boyce, but Boyce, he would have killed Chapel, he’s got a family now… too much to lose if he didn’t win,” Pike shrugs, “he’s a good man, really, a friend of mine, and he adores them both but he’s got his own agenda.”

Jim tries to take everything in, the self-sacrificing, hazel-eyed, healer and the young angel; and then there’s the Careers… all so much older than him, in their late twenties and thirties, falling so easily into brutality. Jim has a feeling he won’t last the night.

“Who else is important?” He asks, setting the tablet aside. “Who else do I need to watch for?”

Pike understands that Jim knows the real answer is ‘all of them’ but he offers up the big players, “the Careers and Mitchell,” Pike sighs, “just focus on keeping out of their way for as long as possible, but if you get an opportunity to strike, Jim, you do it without a second thought.”

“We’ve arrived,” Dehner is suddenly at the door, she’s changed: her hair is in an elaborate up-do, silver threaded amongst the blue strands; lips and eyes pastel pink. “Big smile, Jim,” she says, beaming – and if her voice catches on his name, no one says anything.

 

He’s greeted by Spock, Nyota and Pavel. Spock, with his ridiculous bowl cut and green tinged skin, and the beautiful Nyota, elegant but sexy in a red two-piece ensemble, and then Pavel, with his head of tight cork-screw curls and those surgically enhanced huge, puppy-dog eyes.

It’s a close to home and Jim is going to get in the Capitol and so he soaks up their warmth and their praise and even smiles through Spock’s lecture about the disarray that have become his eyebrows.

“It is illogical that you would let them grow so untidy,” he states. “Pavel, I entrust him to you, when Nyota and I next see him, he is to be perfect.”

“He vill be, Mister Spock,” Pavel nods, “zis vay.” He leads Jim and Dehner down to our ‘Remake Suite’ but shoos Pike away with a meek flick of his wrist. “Ve vill ‘ave you looking perfect again in no time,” he smiles. But even Pavel, who’s every joy in life comes from remaking, looks ready to burst into tears.

Jim’s acne scars were already removed last year, and his scars from the Games were removed before he went on tour, so the dermal process takes less time than usual. Instead, Pavel ‘treats’ Jim to a facial, some sort of restorative clay and chemical compound. It’ll make him feel better, Pavel assures. Then Pavel works on his nails, his brows, then curls his eyelashes (“so long, so vonderful”) and then lines his lower water-line in a soft grey kohl liner. Pavel even gives Jim a pedicure, shapes his side-burns and, finally, gives him a hair-cut.

“Nyota vill be in to style your hair,” Pavel says, “just vait a few moments.”

Jim lays back in his prep chair, he’s less scared than he was this time last year; it feels less visceral this time round, as if it isn’t really touching him – like a dream or hallucination, a mirage that will fade when he steps too close.

But it’s not going to fade. It’s as real as Jim himself and it’s going to be as sharp as a knife’s edge, if Jim isn’t careful he’ll get cut, he knows that. He’s just not sure if he cares.

“Kirk,” Nyota greets sternly, but she looks so grateful to have him here with her, so happy to have him within touching distance. “Look at the mess you’ve gotten yourself into,” she adds with a sigh, “I wish we could have met again under different circumstances.”

“Me too, Ny,” Jim offers her a weak smile, “I’m sorry.”

“I understand why you wouldn’t let Pike go in there, it’s amazing how many of this year’s tributes are volunteers; three, imagine that. It’s unheard of,” she murmurs.

“We’ve got a lot to prove, I guess,” Jim shrugs.

“Spock has a good idea for you this year,” she says, running gelled hands through his hair, tossing it about until she finds something she likes. “I’m going to throw some lighter blonde in, no grey this year,” she frowns pointedly, handing Jim a make-up removal wipe. Jim obediently rubs it over his eyes.

“Brown,” she continues, “something a little warmer.”

“Okay,” Jim shrugs, “whatever you think.”

“Greys and blacks are too clichéd for miners anyway,” she continues. “And the ash theme doesn’t fill me with confidence.”

“Does this mean I’m gonna be wearing a brown suit?” Jim frowns, clearly not too thrilled by the idea.”

“Yes,” Nyota says, chiding the fact that Jim is so open with his discontent, “a dark brown suit for tonight’s gala, something top secret for the opening ceremony, and we’re thinking gold accents for Komack’s interview.”

“Gold…” Jim repeats, eye widening. He’d gulp if the mere contemplation of being scared about his wardrobe choices wasn’t completely ridiculous. “Is Barnett going to be there tonight?” he wonders.

“I imagine so.”

Barnett is the Capitol’s president; he doesn’t like Jim, doesn’t much like anything outside the Capitol, with the exception of districts one and two perhaps – and even that is highly selective at best. Jim hadn’t seen him much on the tour, just at the party held at one of the grand mansions he owns in the centre of the Capitol.

By the time he’s finished, Nyota has him in a fresh pair of jeans and a white t-shirt, just until Spock’s ready to dress him later. He’s mostly been able to keep his more natural dusty-blonde tones, but Nyota has artfully added little platinum and honey tones too, like spun gold in places. Jim’s eyes are framed in a light brown liner and, no that he ever would aloud, he has to admit he prefers it to the blacks and greys of last year. He’s never been a fan of press powder and most of the foundations are too rich for his sensitive skin so Nyota’s just set him with a layer of primer and a tinted moisturiser, she smiles contently, nodding once to let him know she’s finished.

“Is there a lot of gold?” Jim asks, grimacing.

“Trust us,” Nyota urges, “and stop whining.”

Jim is free to go now; Spock will visit him at the district twelve apartment a few hours before the gala is due to start. Spock is a very busy man though, Jim knows, he’ll no doubt be making alterations to what Jim’s meant to be wearing tonight based on whatever Nyota has to say and the most recent tailoring measurements that Pavel took at the start of their session.

 He walks through the Remake Centre, trying to go unnoticed. He just wants to get back to his room and hide out until the games, no press, no fancy costumes, but that isn’t an option. He gets as far as the lift terminal before he sees anyone he recognises. Chapel, she’s eighteen now but she still looks like the young girl he remembers from the games, she’s in a pale yellow dress, the hem just perched over her knees, her white-blonde hair pulled up into an intricate French plait. She catches him looking at her and smiles.

She’s beautiful.

He feels his stomach drop. He can understand why the boy from seven, McCoy, wants to protect her, he’s only just laid eyes on her for the first time in real life and already he's willing to pledge his allegiance to her, offer her his bow, so to speak.

“Hello,” she says gently, slightly chiding, like she’s politely asking him not to stare without having to. Jim looks away, neck flushing.

“Hi,” he offers.

“Good luck,” she says.

He scoffs, turning his head so as not to frown at her, then he turns back, offering his most charming, charismatic smile.

“And to you,” he nods, stepping into his lift.

 

The rest of the day passes as a blur, and the gala is no better; he’s swanning around in a fitted chocolate brown tuxedo, the waist coat is some shade of taupe that Spock assures him is very _Haut Couture_ , reminiscent of the _old Parisian styles_. It would, of course, be _illogical_ for Jim to wear anything else. The Careers are sat together, flanked by Mitchell and Rand, she looks striking, blues and greens dipped at the ends of her blonde hair – her dress is sheer though, shells cup her bosom and a dainty thong type thing are the only opaque concealment for her milky skin. This is obviously district four’s angle, to wear as little as possible and _seduce_ sponsors. The alluring merfork look no more than a tempting guise. 

Jim soon finds himself looking for Chapel, her and her fellow district seven tribute are also in green, but it’s a dark tone of jade and it sets their tanned, worker’s skin alight.

McCoy catches Jim’s gaze and his heart plummets.

“You look like a fish,” Dehner scolds, slipping two fingers under his chin to tip his mouth closed.

“He’s different to how I remember him,” Jim whispers, “from when he was on the games.”

“Well, he would be,” she laughs, carelessly tilting her head back, “he’s all grown up now, a man, no more of that gangly limbed, too tall for his own good sort of thing.”

Dehner looks at him again and leers, McCoy is still watching them watch him, a confused scowl on his face, plush lips pursed tight together – like he wants to run his mouth but he knows he can't. “No,” Dehner breathes, “he’s a man now.”

Dehner’s only in her late twenties, she could have McCoy if she wanted, if he goes for the doll-like women of the Capitol.

Jim looks at Chapel again, a long satin dress that pools on the ground and hugs her curves that are usually hidden under knee-length tulle skirts. Maybe they won’t play up the childish trope, maybe that doesn’t sell anymore.

McCoy takes Chapel’s hand and guides her away from Jim’s gaze. Jim’s left feeling abashed, like he's a child caught with his hand in the cookie-jar, or worse - a peeping-tom.

He follows McCoy’s trail.

He’s not sure what he’s going to say. They’re outside when he finally catches up with them, sitting together on some of the steps out front, it’s quiet and it’s dark and Jim has no right to intrude on their time together. Not when it might all be over in ten days’ time. But he needs McCoy to understand… _understand, what?_ He doesn’t exactly know. Understand that Jim has no intention of hurting Chapel; that actually he was staring at McCoy, at his dark eyes and his pouty lips and how lovely his skin looks against the velvet of his blazer lapels and open-buttoned shirt of the same shade of jade.

“Can we help you?” Chapel asks, turning around before Jim even announces himself, McCoy follows her gaze and scowls at Jim.

“I’m Jim Kirk,” he offers, even though they already know that. Jim shakes his head, he’s such an idiot.

“We know that,” McCoy huffs, “what’d you want?”

McCoy’s voice is deep and rich, a twang here and there like something’s curving his vocal chords. Jim doesn’t remember how he sounded in his Games, doesn’t even recall if he spoke very much. But this, this sticks to Jim and he knows he won’t forget it in a hurry. It’s gloopy and sweet but bitter too, like that decadent cake they’ve been serving with the layers of chocolate interspersed with honeycomb and cream. For every note that is brittle and sharp there is a soft dip, a languorous curl over the vowels, smooth on Jim’s palate.

“I just-“ Jim huffs, frowning. “I just wanted to say good luck.”

“Are you for real, kid?”

“Leo.” Chapel chides. “Thank you, Jim,” she says; her eyes meet his and she smiles. “Would you like to sit with us?” she asks.

“Christine-”

“We met at the elevator port today, I think I prefer you in jeans,” she grins, “the tux is lovely, of course,” she assures. “But I did like the more casual look.”

“You’re not the only one,” Jim offers her a crooked smile and sits down on the steps, a meter or so from where McCoy is sitting, two steps lower.

McCoy keeps his eyes on Jim, watching for _something_ , as if Jim might try something tonight – even though they all know it’s illegal to assault a fellow tribute before the Games. He just wants to yell at McCoy, _I don’t want to hurt you, I want to help you._

Not that he has a single clue why.

Pretty hazel eyes – that are probably not even natural – are no reason for Jim to start getting romantic notions in his head. It’s silly.

“If you’re lookin’ for an alliance, kid, we’re not your best bet,” McCoy scoffs, “an’ we’re not lookin’ to fight.”

“I’m not in a rush to go out there killing, either,” Jim counters, frowning. During his own games he’d only killed one other tribute, the tribute he _had_ to kill to be crowned Victor. His name was Nero, and even though he was a boorish eighteen year old from district one, that was twice Jim’s size and eager for one more kill, Jim still sees his eyes in his dreams at night. He still wakes up screaming. He still regrets burying the hilt of his stolen knife into Nero’s belly and he’s so _damn_ sorry.

“Boys,” Chapel says gently, “how about we just try being friends, you think you can manage that?”

“Christine, we’re in the arena in nine days,” McCoy huffs, “now ain’t the time to be makin’ _friends_.” He says it like it’s a dirty word, corrosive and dangerous. As if Jim’s presence threatens their very existence.

“I can manage that,” Jim says, and it makes Chapel smile. McCoy looks at him again, a brow raised, like he’s surprised, and pleasantly so. Jim’s exceeded expectation.

And isn’t that a wonderful thing?

“Jim Kirk,” he introduces again, reaching his hand out to McCoy.

“McCoy,” the man mutters, “Leonard McCoy.”

“I think, for the next nine days, at least, we’re pretty safe,” Jim says tentatively, throwing a winning smile in Chapel’s direction.

“Don’t pander to me, kid,” McCoy says, getting up from the steps, holding his hand out for Chapel to take. “We’ll see you around, but I’m not makin’ any promises.”

“Leo-”

“Look, Chris,” he huffs, turning to face her, “you gotta trust me on this.” He’s looking at her with stern eyes, brotherly authority. He’s the lion here and she is the lamb, except they’re lying down together.

The end _must_ be nigh.

 

“Just make sure you watch out for who’s watching you,” Pike reminds. “They’re going to want to work out your weaknesses, they know less about you because they probably weren’t watching the games, most of them anyway, save the Careers.”

Jim understands that, he wouldn’t have watched the Games this year either, you don’t get much of a choice but he would have done his best to avoid it. Because he was never going to be a mentor, Pike was good at fulfilling that role, Jim would have probably ended up getting his tributes killed. Now he is the tribute, a strange kind of irony maybe, but at least he can’t be compelled to watch them because he’ll be _reliving_ them.

Funny how things work out.

“I’ll do my best, Chris,” Jim nods, kitting up for his day in the Training Centre, “shall I go for the bow?”

“No point playing coy,” Chris shrugs, “it’s your thing, utilise it, get some practice in, _scare_ them.”

So that’s what Jim tries to do over the next few days; of course he heads around to different areas of the circuit, but he knows how to start a fire, knows how to use rope, and knows how to hunt.

On the third day he can feel eyes on him, he looks up and sees Mitchell; he’s making a fishing line, deftly weaving wire together, but his arms are outstretched, as if he’s putting on a show.

“Kirk,” he greets gently, voice smooth but it grates against Jim; it makes his skin crawl.

“Mitchell,” Jim nods, shouldering his bow and stepping over to where Mitchell is perched, Janice at his feet making bait hooks.

“Can you fish, James?” He asks, but the use of his first name, his _actual_ first name sets Jim even further on the edge.

“Slightly,” Jim shrugs, he used to go ice fishing when he and Sam were a bit younger, it was the only thing to do in winter, when the animals moved further up the pastures, too far for Jim to follow. There is only so far an arrow can fly.

“Father wasn’t around to teach you, I guess, it’s to be expected,” Mitchell shrugs in return and cards a hand through Janice’s hair. She’s twenty six, Jim thinks, and yet he treats her like a child.

He hopes she’s the one to kill him.

The mention of his father is too rough though and Jim feels like he’s been dealt a blow to the gut.

“You don’t know anything about my father,” Jim says, nostrils flaring like the start of a snarl. But he walks away. He exhales.

His father died in a mine accident on the eve of his birth, propelled his mother into labour. George has been a shadow ever since, a dark cloud looming over their family. Winona tries her best, and she was always there for her boys, but losing a lover is hard; Jim knows that for certain even though he’s never experienced it. He’s seen it in her eyes, the dimmed light, the extinguished flame; she lives a half-life and every time Jim heads back to the arena she loses another piece of George.

There’s not much left of her to hold together.

Sam tries his best, harder than Jim ever tried, but even he isn’t a miracle worker, and now he spends his days in the mines too. Her worst nightmares are played out in her everyday reality.

Jim has a slight idea what that feels like. 

“You okay, Jim?” it’s Chapel, McCoy standing beside her still looking wary.

“Yeah,” Jim nods, pursing his lips to keep from sneering at Mitchell. He turns to face the two from district seven and he offers them a reassuring smile. “I’m fine,” he adds, “’re you guys hungry?”

They eat lunch in the next room, on some benches provided to make the area appear like a cafeteria. But it’s cold and metallic and not inviting in the least, they sit down together with their assigned sandwiches, Jim taking the seat opposite McCoy. _McCoy_ , Jim scoffs, who is grumbling about the mess Jim’s making and how ridiculous it is to eat chicken and bacon a couple days before trying to win the Hunger Games.

“No, way,” Jim counters, “I’m stocking up. This is good tactics.”

“Yeah,” McCoy snorts, “if you’re heart doesn’t give out first.”

“Live a little,” Jim smirks, and a startled puff of laughter escapes Chapel’s throat at the crudely timed joke.

“I s’pose you’re right,” McCoy scoffs, “but you’re gonna wanna be as lean as you can be in there, excess’ll slow you down.”

“I don’t carry excess,” Jim counters, affronted. He presses the pad of his finger into his abdomen, it meets hard muscle and he smiles, relieved, “see?”

“Fightin’ fit,” McCoy huffs, taking the last bite of his greenery-filled whole-wheat, placing the crust back onto his plate, “we should get back in there.”

It turns out that McCoy has absolutely no ability with a weapon, Jim is amazed that he actually won the Games, glad, in part, but completely amazed. McCoy keeps talking about prevention instead, learning how to navigate through whatever terrain they’re given without leaving a trace, being able to outsmart the Game Makers when they throw you a curve ball to try and bait you back to the Cornucopia, learning to make your own food source from whatever’s around.

“You could teach us to hunt,” Chapel says, nodding at Jim’s bow, “I got lucky last time with food,” she looks down, and Jim feels his stomach roil. Chapel had been in the arena with Roger Korby, they had promised to stick together as long as possible, but the Games changed Roger, he turned dark and twisted pretty quickly – he killed a young boy from district ten, burned the carcass, they ate like royalty for a week.

“I could do that,” Jim nods, “get a bow each,” he instructs.

Jim doesn’t remember how he learned to wield a bow, he’d just found one in the woods one day as he’d been wandering in the woods, past the electric fence, heading down to play with the hares. It was Spring time. He must have been about nine or ten. He spent every waking moment from then on trying to perfect it, shooting at targets marked on trees until he never missed a shot.

Sam said it was a gift, and it was – it turned out to be his only saving grace in the Games.

He shows Chapel first, because McCoy insists, _ladies first_ he murmurs, blush creeping up his neck.

She’s strong with the bow, sure of herself, she’s killed and she knows the reality of the Games. She slots the arrow in to place on the string and extends, holding her arrow with just the right touch to keep it in place. She doesn’t let her gaze waiver.

“Just a touch lower,” Jim says, setting his hands on her shoulder, easing them down, “and keep a good line with your elbow,” he adds, tilting her elbow up a notch and then tucking it in so it’s more in line with the arrow.

“Is this okay?” she wonders, looking to Jim for reassurance.

“Aim, eyes open, and let it fly,” his whispers, like it's a secret, just for them.

She gets there sooner or later, proficient enough that she could hit a still animal of a fair enough size. They’ll have to leave the hares to Jim, he thinks with a wry smile. McCoy raises his bow, he seems to know what to do theoretically speaking, but his hand clutches the metal curve of the bow too tight, and his fingers tremble as they graze through the fletching of the arrow.

“Hey,” Jim says gently, tentatively stepping closer behind McCoy so that he can reach out and pry his grip slightly looser, “relax, take a deep breath,” he encourages. "Let it go on the exhale."

McCoy looks back at him and frowns indignantly; Jim can’t help but cough out a little chuckle at the quirk of the brunette's brow. McCoy snorts at himself too and then sighs, realigning himself with a better posture and a more confident stance.

He hits the target when he releases the arrow but he’s frowning again.

“What’s wrong?” Jim asks.

“I used to hunt with my Daddy,” he says and Christine reaches out to brush her hand against his elbow. Jim can see loss in McCoy’s eye and Jim is certain that means his father will be dead if Jim asks, so he doesn’t, he just sets a hand on McCoy’s hip – McCoy, who is taller than him by at least an inch or two – and lifts his elbow, urging him to take up the bow again. McCoy doesn’t seem placated by the closeness of Jim’s body against his back but Jim’s long since learnt not to take offense, affection can’t happen in the arena, he may have fallen into a ditch, but he doesn’t have to drag McCoy down with him.

“You’ve got it,” Jim whispers, nodding to himself, “you’ll do fine.”

It’s a lie he’s learning to placate himself with, he doesn’t know why McCoy matters but he does. It isn’t just because Jim’s got these, well, these _feelings_ for him, with his pretty synthetic eyes and his pretty – no doubt surgically enhanced – lips. He remembers what Pike said: _he made district seven_ mean _something_. Maybe if McCoy won again, without having to take a single life, maybe things would change, maybe the districts would learn that the Games are not the answer. Maybe the Capitol would look up and take note.

Jim’s eyes follow McCoy as he puts away his bow, taking Chapel’s from her and setting that on the stand alongside his own. Jim wonders if he could do it, if he could bleed Chapel dry to give McCoy a chance.

He’d do it for Sam and for his beautiful girlfriend Aurelan, who refuse to have children because they could never risk letting them face what Jim has faced. No child deserves that fate.

He’d do it if it meant no mother would ever again have to watch their child depart for the Capitol on that high speed train, never to return.

Would McCoy take the chance?

 

“Six days left, Jim,” Pike says that evening. “Spock wants to go over the opening ceremony with you tomorrow, and then you’ve got your interview the following evening,” he recites from an itinerary card Dehner’s given him, “then you need to just keep your head down and focus on your training.”

“What’s my angle for the interview?” Jim asks.

“Just be your charismatic self, everyone adores you, Jim,” Pike promises, “you just have to remember that.”

“I think I’m gonna work with seven,” Jim admits.

“That’s like burying your head in the soil, Jim,” Pike huffs, “McCoy isn’t out to win.”

“But he won’t kill me,” Jim shrugs.

“Chapel would,” Pike says, “you remember that, she might be lovely and friendly now, but she did her fair share of whatever she had to do to keep herself alive in that arena, McCoy might not kill you himself but he won’t stop her either.”

“I’d do the same for Sam, actually, I’d kill for Sam,” Jim shrugs, “I don’t know if I’m meant to walk away from this, Chris,” he whispers, “it just doesn’t feel right.”

“Don’t you dare give up on me,” Pike orders, taking Jim’s shoulder in his hand, clasping at it like it’s a life line, “please, Jim, don’t give up, don’t throw it away.”

“You said I should make an alliance and I have,” Jim counters, “the two least dangerous people in the ring, people that aren’t aching to kill me.”

“So they’ve let you think,” Pike states, and it sounds almost spiteful, Jim looks up at him, discarding the piece of thread he was trying to knot.

“They’re not playing a game, Chris, you know that as well as I do,” Jim says, “they’re going to try and survive and I’m going to try and help th-” Jim knows that isn’t what he’s meant to say, isn’t what he wanted to say. He shakes his head, backtracks, tries to recover the graves he’s unearthed. “I mean, why not try and survive with them; I can leave them until the end.”

“I don’t know what your game is this time,” Pike admits, looking old and weary, “but if you don’t try your goddamn hardest to walk out of that arena again, I’ll-”

“What?” Jim bates, sardonic, hopeless smirk twisting his face, “what will you do?”

“Please, Jim,” he whispers, “for Sam and Winona, for me.”

Jim wants to tell Pike he isn’t his father, but Pike has been more of a father to him over the last year than he’s ever known and he can’t disregard that. Wouldn’t be as spiteful to ignore the fact or discount it. Pike might not be blood, but he trusts him and Jim’s come to realise that counts for a lot in this world. Way more than blood.

“I’ll try my goddamn hardest,” he promises, voice no more than a whisper. He’s not sure yet whether or not it’s the truth, but if he only has five more days with Pike then he’s gonna make them count.

 

He heads down to the training area early the next morning, it's still dark and while he doubts the presence of anyone else it wouldn't be unheard of, he's there that early after all.

It's dimly lit when he enters; he lets his eyes get used to the twilight and lets out a relieved sigh. He's glad actually, it'll be nice to be in there alone for once - no prying eyes and judging eyes.

But then he hears it, the unmistakable sound of metal piercing wood; the force of an arrow head imbedding itself into a target.

He wonders who it is. And childishly hopes they're not using his bow. He tries to keep as quiet as he can when he rounds the corner two where the archery platform is.

It's McCoy.

He's shooting but it's not going very well. He's shaky and hitting anything but the target; aiming too high for how close he is to the target, then it looks as if he got frustrated and starting aiming too low.

Jim smiles, out of some spike of fondness over any feeling of spite, or God forbid, pity.

"You're never gonna hit it if you aim for the floor," Jim says softly, but he must startle McCoy because he snaps his head around, neck cracking from the sharpness of the movement and arrow slipping out of the notch in the bow and clattering to the floor.

The silence is uncomfortable.

McCoy averts his gaze and bends to pick up the arrow; he turns back and frowns at Jim.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on folk,” he huffs.

“I wasn’t,” Jim promises, “I wanted to train too, didn’t think anyone’d be down here.”

“Try’na get some practice in,” McCoy says, lifting the bow with his left hand.

“You were better than that yesterday,” Jim offers, voice still slightly hesitant.

“You were there,” McCoy shrugs and then, Jim thinks, heart racing, he must realise the implication of what he’s just said because he splutters and tries to correct himself, “I mean, givin’ direction.”

“Right,” Jim nods, “would you like me to…” He waves his hand in the direction of the bow.

McCoy just nods and Jim wastes no time bounding up to the podium, taking up a neutral stance behind McCoy he sets a hand on the brunette’s hip, pulling it back slightly. Jim guides his hand up McCoy’s side, setting his arm and his shoulder straight and lining his arrow arm perfectly.

“Don’t turn your other arm out,” Jim says, moving the arm holding the bow until he’s happy, “keep it like that.”

“You’re mighty handsy, kid,” McCoy swallows, pursing his lips.

“Sorry,” Jim says flippantly, he obviously doesn’t mean it, “I wouldn’t know how to show you any other way.”

McCoy grumbles and then steadies his breathing, a steady inhale, exhale and it’s the only sound that fills the room, Jim holding in his own breath as McCoy aims and shoots.

“Perfect,” Jim says with a smile, “maybe I’m just a good luck charm,” he jokes.

“Maybe,” McCoy snorts.

“Would you help me with something? Quid pro quo, kinda?” Jim asks.

“Sure,” McCoy nods, eyeing him suspiciously, “what ’cha need help with?”

“I’m allergic to a lot of stuff; in the last Games I got hurt, and when I tried to medicate with what was around me I just made things worse,” Jim explains.

“I saw,” McCoy nods his understanding.

“You saw?”

“I had to, Christine an’ I were mentorin’ last year,” McCoy says, then he sighs, steps across Jim to put the bow back onto the rack and gestures for Jim to head over to the little bay with all the basic medical supplies.

Jim spends the rest of the morning, until the others start to file in to train, intently watching McCoy, who starts by taking basic blood tests and trying to help Jim memorise what he’s allergic to, then listing various medicinal options that should work for Jim. They tie tourniquets together and McCoy uses one of the mannequins to show Jim how to reset fractured bones.

“How do you know how to reset bone?” Jim asks, frowning.

“You don’t remember my Games?” McCoy smirks bitterly, “slipped when I was climbing a rock face, my calf snapped along the tibia an’ came right up through the skin,” McCoy pauses, collecting his thoughts.

“I do remember,” Jim says frowning, “vaguely, you used the cloth of your undershirt to bind it.”

“I was lucky it was only a few days before the end, I’d never ‘a made it if I’d been confronted, could barely walk, had to hole up in a nook in the rocks,” McCoy shrugs, “I’ve spent a lot of time learning practical medicine since, tryin’ to give the mentees the best chance, orthopaedics is important.”

“Orthopaedics?” Jim questions, doctors are few and far between in district twelve; things are done the old fashioned way, not like here in the Capitol where there is a different surgeon for every inch of the body.

“Just a bone doctor, kid,” McCoy smiles.

They spend the rest of the morning watching the other tributes and chatting, Jim’s so used to being alone that he forgets each district comes as a pair, Chapel’s nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s…” Jim isn’t sure if he’s meant to call her Christine yet so he just looks around the training space bewildered and McCoy seems to understand.

“She’s takin’ it easy, she was in here ‘til ten last night, our remake team need to start getting’ her ready early anyway,” McCoy sighs, “I can’t believe they place how good she looks higher on the list then how good she prepares, how good she survives,” he rants, huffing.

“I’m sorry,” Jim whispers, “you care about her a lot,” he adds with a small frown, the worst thing to do is care, Jim’s certain of that if nothing else.

“Like she’s blood,” McCoy agrees.

“You’re a good guy, Bones,” Jim says and then blushes, he’s only been thinking the nickname in his head for about an hour but it slips past his lips and McCoy frowns.

“Bones?” He shakes his head, “tha’ supposed to be clever?”

“’s better than Leonard,” Jim counters, trying not to pout – he’s embarrassed, sure, but there’s no need to let McCoy know that.

“We should get lunch, kid,” McCoy says with a coy sort of smirk, like he doesn’t want to feel fond of Jim but can’t help himself. That thought gives Jim butterflies, he’s probably just projecting his own feeling, but it’ll do for now if that’s all he’s going to get.

“Jim,” he reminds, standing up and making his way across the room to the adjoining cafeteria.

“Jim,” Bones repeats, quick to follow him. 


	2. No Second Troy

  Jim stands alone in the chariot.

  He’s wearing a champagne gold suit, it shimmers when the light hits it; he can hear Spock’s level voice in his head, “there are no no-win scenarios, James, so strive for gold, strive for victory.” It’s going around and around in his head, his bow tie is too tight, and his heart is pounding, he looks around and expects to see her – his fellow tribute. But she is long dead, only thirteen, too young, not ready. And now he is alone.

  He’s meant to look ethereal, with his angelic eyes and his cherubim blonde hair. His bow tie is so tight. It’s darker than his suit, rope coloured, he thinks, like a noose. He’s so light headed, he doesn’t look at the crowds, couldn’t face them if he tried. He’s going into this arena alone. Alone.

When he comes to Pike is there, he’s not in the chariot anymore, he’s sat on some steps, a party going on behind him. He doesn’t remember though, getting off the chariot, being welcomed by Barnett, moving to a new party venue.

“You fainted,” Pike says gently. There is another set of hands on him, warm against him – touching through the thin cotton of his white dress shirt, he must have misplaced his suit jacket.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he looks round and it’s Bones, he’s in a tight fitted one piece, like a lumberjack’s overalls, but they’re jade velvet again, leaves painted onto the exposed skin. He looks beautiful, the Capitols finest work. 

“Bones?” Jim breathes, “what happened?”

“Low sugar levels,” he says gently, “have you eaten?”

“Not since lunch,” Jim admits, and he doesn’t know whether he should say it, Pike certainly won’t be happy, but he trusts Bones, “I think I was having a panic attack in the chariot.”

“Jim-” Pike warns but Bones interrupts.

“Is tha’ the last thing you remember?” He questions.

“I couldn’t breathe,” Jim says, pulling at the bow tie that’s no longer tied, just hanging limp around his neck.

“You were lookin’ mighty worse f’ wear when you came outta the cart,” Bones agrees, “it’s okay though, we’ll get you somethin’a drink, get somethin’ sweet in‘cha.”

“Thanks,” Jim nods, looking up at Pike, “is Liz okay? She didn’t freak did she, I haven’t ruined her opening ceremony?”

“She’s fine,” Pike assures, eyeing Bones wearily, “I think I can take it from here, McCoy.”

“Right,” Bones nods, “o’ course.”

“Hey,” Jim reaches out his hand, catching Bones’ wrist, “thanks.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Bones smiles, nodding at Pike politely before excusing himself.

“What’s all that about?” Pike hisses, lowing himself so he’s facing Jim directly, wincing at the creek of his knees.

“I told you, we’re allies,” Jim whispers, looking around for the sign of any eavesdroppers, “I trust him.”

“Hmm,” Pike makes a derisive, scathing noise at the back of his throat, “it looks like something else entirely, Jim.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jim counters.

“You can’t keep him,” Pike states, “so don’t get attached.”

Wise words really; and it’s the truth, only one person can walk out of the arena, Jim doubts it’ll be him or Bones. So why try and start something? Or even entertain the thought of it? It’ll only make it harder to survive the Games, he can’t watch out for Bones when Bones is going to be too busy watching out for Chapel to make Jim’s job any easier. And who’s watching out for Jim? This can only lead to heartbreak on Jim’s part, and he doesn’t need that alongside the hyperawareness he has of his own mortality, like the tick-tock of an old-world manual clock, eternally counting down in his head, closer and closer to his own demise.

Pike’s right, he usually is. But Jim can’t help it. He’s only seventeen. He’s not an adult and he doesn’t think like one, he doesn’t act like one. He shouldn’t have to. He should be at home, free to fall in love, or lust, if he pleases. _However_ he pleases.

He’s not at home though.

So the usual rules don’t apply.

But when he looks at Bones, the ground underneath him seems to shift, he sets everything Jim’s ever known off kilter – _he made district seven mean something_ – he thinks Pike may have had a point. A point that Jim is slowly starting to get: resistance, the defiance in the face of the Capitol’s barbarism and its tyranny. Bones has made Jim want to make district twelve _mean_ something, Jim wants to fly in the face of this egotism, this selfish disregard for life, he doesn’t want to hold the white flag of surrender anymore.

Bones understands no no-win scenarios, Jim thinks, maybe better than Jim himself. It’s subtle, balancing on the tip of a knife’s edge and ready to slip and cut him, Bones, that is, but Jim too, all of them, in the districts and in the Capitol. The Games can be won without taking a life, what Jim wonders is what would happen if they all said no. If each person walked into the Cornucopia, settled into a sleeping bag and just… waited.

What if no life was taken? Of course, the Game Makers might throw in some curve balls, Number One is known for her little ‘nudges’. Some people might die, but what if nobody killed?

Jim asks Dehner to escort him back to their rooms, she obliges, tells him to get some sleep before the big interview tomorrow. He nods obediently, offering her the smile he knows that she so desperately needs. Her own desire for reassurance, she’s wearing thin, he can see that much. So he tucks himself into bed and lies there. He doesn’t sleep. He can’t. Instead, he thinks about Bones, about the huge mahogany trees that grow in district seven, he thinks about the green on their leaves, vibrant and alive. He thinks about the rusting of their colour in the Fall; the burnt reds and oranges and gold.

He thinks about Bones’ eyes.

The amber and moss green rimmed by this too dark blue, like they need a barrier, like his irises need to be contained. The dark night sky shrouding the Earth, keeping the sunshine and the nectar and the trees and ripened wheat fused together – like its Bones’ job to hold it as one, to wrap his strong doctor hands around the world and enfold.

Jim wonders if he will ever be held in the depths of Bones’ eyes.

Sleep comes easy then, and he dreams the answer might be yes, that he will; that maybe in another world Bones could have captured Jim in his gaze and held him safe with the rest of the world, under the night sky.

 

He has to trust Pike, Jim knows that. He lies awake watching the sunrise through the huge glass wall on the other side of his suite, he sighs; it reminds him of the yellow of Chapel’s hair, the pink of Dehner’s eye-shadow, the red of Nyota’s dress.

He throws his head back with a sigh, looks up at the freshly-painted white ceiling.

He’s going to have to avoid Bones for a while, if he doesn’t want to fall too deep, so he won’t go down to the training room in the early hours like he has done before, he’ll wait, wait for Bones and Chapel to take their lunch break and then he’ll go. He can brush it off as embarrassment from last night if Bones should ask. Not that Jim thinks he will, he doesn’t, but he might and Jim can’t very well say: _I need to avoid falling for you; your eyes make my heart race; are your lips surgically enhanced; can I kiss them anyway_?

After lunch they have to present themselves to the Game Makers, Jim’ll lift his bow like he did last year, probably score around the same: a safe ten. Maybe Bones will make use of one of the dummies and show off his medicinal skills. Jim looks it up, he only got scored a seven for his first Games, they won’t underestimate him this time though.

Higher scores aren’t necessarily a good thing, either, anyone getting over ten will be an immediate target for the Careers.

“Feelin’ okay?” Bones asks when Jim enters the little waiting room that adjoins the Training Centre. 

“Better, had a lie in this morning, Pike said I should rest up,” Jim lies.

“Well good luck,” Bones offers, inviting Jim to sit down beside him with a steady hand on the empty space of the bench next to him. Chapel’s sitting on the other side twiddling a knife nervously.

“You’ll do fine, Chapel,” Jim assures, looking over Leo to smile at her.

“You should call me Christine, Jim,” she says gently, and then gives Bones a strange look before turning back to her knife.

“You gonna use the bow?” Bones asks.

“I’m not good at much else,” Jim scoffs.

“I’m sure you’re good at plenty, Jim, you didn’t win the game just because you can shoot,” Bones counters.

“What’re you gonna do?” Jim wonders.

“Might do some rope work,” Bones shrugs.

“Rope work? You’ve got hidden depths, Bones,” Jim says with a surprised raise of his voice, “you were holding out on me.”

“You never asked,” Bones shrugs, smirking.

“Suppose that’s true,” Jim grins.

A sinister sound erupts from the bench in front and Jim lifts his chin to assess it, a low, almost menacing laugh. Singh and Mitchell have turned around to sneer at Jim, “joining the pacifist?” Mitchell scoffs.

“Rather him than you,” Jim says and Khan raises an eyebrow.

“Is that so?” Singh asks, his voice is deeper than Mitchell’s, his is the source of menace.

“Yes,” Jim states, eyes burning bright, defiant.

“Jim,” Bones warns, setting a warm, restraining, hand on his arm. Jim’s the youngest tribute this year, Singh is almost thirty, Mitchell’s recently celebrated his twenty eighth birthday – they could rip his throat out with their bare hands, or, at least, Singh could anyway. Jim is going to gain nothing by antagonising them.

The presentations starts and Naitra is called into the Training Hall, Singh turns back around to watch her go, Mitchell follows suit, whispering something to Hendorff, who’s sitting beside him, who chuckles but doesn’t comment further.

When it’s Christine’s turn Bones takes her by the hands, stands her up and kisses her forehead, _the only person McCoy’ll be killing is himself_ , Jim’s stomach sinks and he can’t properly manage a smile.

“Good luck,” he says to her before swallowing. She nods and makes her way in through the door to the left. When Jim looks back from her Bones is frowning at him.

“Wha’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nervous, I guess,” Jim shrugs, and it’s the truth. It’s just not this training presentation that’s making him nervous.

Bones won’t lie and say that Jim will be fine, but he does lower his hand on Jim’s arm, rubbing his fingers over Jim’s wrist before pulling away.

“Can I ask you something?” Bones wonders.

“Yeah,” Jim shrugs, “I guess.”

“I don’t know what your tactics are, for the arena Jim, but I-” he stops himself, looks down, frowning, like he doesn’t want to say whatever’s just about to come out of his mouth. “Stay away from us,” he whispers, “when we’re in there, I can’t-”

 _Leonard McCoy, district seven_ , is called out over the loudspeaker, Bones looks up, Christine finished fast, and it looks like Bones banked on having more time to explain himself.

“Please, Jim,” he says, fear and worry in his eyes, “just, when you get off that podium, don’t come to us.”

They wait, looking at each other for a long few moments before the call is repeated. Bones turns, heads through the door, looking back just as he passes through the doorframe. He looks rueful. But that doesn’t make Jim feel any better. He feels hollow, empty, like someone has just gutted him, the blood is too slippery and he can’t hold his organs in, they slip out onto the cold, pristine, floor, his heart still thumping.

Thump, thump, thump.

It races.

He’s so confused. They were supposed to be allies, and now… Now Bones has gotten _spooked_? Of Jim? Maybe it’s too much of a risk for the older man, maybe, on deeper consideration, he doesn’t _trust_ Jim. Maybe he just _can’t_. 

When Jim steps into the ‘performance’ area nearly an hour later Number One is stood at the front of her flock, watching intently.

“James Kirk, district twelve,” he announces, before he picks up the bow, slings a quiver of arrows over his shoulder and shoots a succession of quick-fire shots around the room in strategic places. He sets the bow back on the table, not even in in its rightful stand and he walks out.

The rest of the night flashes like that, recounting the event to Spock and Pike, and then again when Dehner gets back from her luncheon. Watching the revealing of the training scores, Nyota and Pavel turning up some way through district six. Chapel gets a ten, Leo an eight. The other districts don’t seem to matter, Pike doesn’t even comment. Until district ten when Caitlin Barry’s face is on the screen.

“She’s sixty-eight,” Pike says gently, “won the twenty-third Games, can you imagine.”

“She’ll die quickly,” Dehner says gently, “she’s not a threat, Jim.”

“No,” Jim agrees, “she’s old enough to be my grandmother, no one volunteered for her?” he turns to Pike.

“No,” he shakes his head, disappointed and apologetic.

“Eleven,” Spock says when Jim’s screen flashes on the screen, “that puts to next to Khan, the joint highest rankings.”

“He’s going to gun for me,” Jim says to Pike, Nyota lays her hand over his knees; he notices the gold artwork on her nails.

“You’ll do fine, Jim,” she urges.

“Don’t engage him in close combat,” Pike says, “shoot him on sight, and from a distance, if you ever get an opening.”

“Right,” Jim nods, “I’m tired, I think I’m gonna turn in.”

“Jim, it is only six thirty, there is a pre-interview gathering we had planned to attend,” Spock reminds – they became quite close during the last Games and over the time Jim spent touring, but everything seems slightly sour.

If he’s completely honest, he just wants to get in the arena, just wants to get it over with.

“Your interview is at nine, Jim,” Pike reminds, “be ready for eight.”

“I just need to sleep for a while,” Jim admits, throwing an apologetic glance at Spock and then at Nyota and Pavel too.

“Ve understand,” Pavel smiles.

“You need to rest up,” Nyota nods.

 

He’s wearing another suit for his interview, although this one’s reminiscent of miner’s overalls, the front of the dungaree-type shape taking the place of a waistcoat and Spock has relieved him of his blazer. He feels ridiculous but Dehner assures him he looks mature and handsome and he knows she wouldn’t let him out there if she didn’t mean it. 

“So, James,” the interviewer, Tonia Barrows, who’s been hosting the show ever since the 70th Games, Bones’ games, begins with a smile, “back again so soon.”

“I just couldn’t keep away,” Jim says with a bright smile. He’s got to remain charming, remain charismatic, he is the people’s Victor, he needs to be grateful, humble. He need to appear to be enjoying this, enjoying doing this all over again, _for them_. It’s all so warped it’s like the staging of a dream, maybe he’ll wake up, maybe he’ll be back in district twelve.

“The allure of the Capitol has that affect,” she acknowledges with a nod and a huge smile to the crowds. “Now, you simply _must_ tell us, has winning fame and glory been all you’d expected?” She asks excitedly.

“And so much more,” he obliges her, nodding politely.

“And have you reaped _other_ benefits?” She wonders, “is there a pretty girl or guy waiting for you back home?”

“Unfortunately not, Tonia,” Jim sighs and the rest of the Capitol makes a collective sound of disbelief and the expected ‘aw’ of sympathy.

“But maybe someone you have your eye on,” she prompts, brown shoulder-length bob swaying as she nods her head encouragingly.

“Maybe,” he smiles cheekily, turning his head and winking at one of the cameras. If nothing else, Jim’s a showman. He’ll give them what they want, no point being sour to the entire world when neither he nor they can change a damn thing.

“Are we going to get any details?” she grins.

“Maybe if I’m sitting back with you in a month’s time,” he grins, she, and the rest of the audience laugh, and they cut to a commercial break – no doubt another one of Barnett’s disciplinary announcements.

He’s glad it’s over and done with, he’s glad he won’t have to play up to the cameras anymore, in three days he’ll be in the arena and all this waiting will be over. He tries not to look at Bones and Christine as he passes them on the way back to his apartment, he isn’t in the mood for the after party and he isn’t in the mood to face Bones. Not when the man doesn’t even trust him. They were meant to be allies and now they’re not. Now Jim is going to walk into that ring alone and no one seems to care.

“Jim,” Bones says, catching up to him and encircling his wrist, pulling Jim back to face him, they’re alone in the hallway before the elevator terminal. Jim frowns.

“I thought you wanted me to keep away,” Jim accuses.

“I do, I did, I don’t know what I want,” Bones huffs, “Phil said I shouldn’t trust you, that Pike would get you to do anything to keep you alive.”

“Chris doesn’t want me anywhere near you,” Jim snaps, “thinks you’d let Chapel get away with anything as long as it kept _her_ alive, reckons your fighting for her and not yourself and that pinning my hopes on you is stupid.”

“Pinnin’ your hopes…”

“Look,” Jim sighs, yanking his wrist away, “just forget I said anything.”

“Don’t do that,” Bones grits out, his drawl thickening as he gets mad, “don’t start somethin’ an’ then walk away.”

“You want me to go,” Jim reminds, jaw clenched tight.

“I want… I don’t know what I want,” he sighs, taking hold of Jim’s wrist again, carefully this time, “I don’t want you t’ die, I don’t want anyone t’ die.”

“Don’t see that you have much of a choice there, Bones,” Jim says with a rueful smile, “I just don’t wanna walk in that arena alone, I trust you, as much as any of us can trust anyone, and I thought… I thought you trusted me.”

“I do,” Bones says gravely.

“So?” Jim prompts.

“I ah, Christine’s got to be my main priority, I-” Bones looks away, like he can’t bear to admit whatever it is that’s troubling him.

“You don’t want her to have to kill me,” Jim whispers, realisation slamming through him like a freight train, “because if it came down to it… you’d let her.”

“I’d have to,” Bones counters, “I’m sorry, Jim.”

“Yeah,” Jim nods slowly, pulling his wrist back again and holding it to his chest with his other hand, “I get it, don’t worry,” he adds, brushing off the devastation like it were lint on his shirt, “me too,” he whispers. He makes for the lift but Bones is on his tail again, slipping into the almost closed doors and pushing Jim up against the back wall of the lift.

“Bones,” Jim huffs, trying to wriggle out of his grip, Bones turns and hits the top floor bell, some penthouse suit, maybe it’s Barrows.

“I need you to listen ‘a me,” Bones whispers, “I’m gonna do my best for you, Jim, I will, I swear, but I can’t… I can’t get involved with you, can’t get emotionally invested in someone who’s gonna die, I mean, _I’m_ gonna die too and I can’t… do you get it?” Bones breaks off, frowning, “I mean, please tell me you understand.”

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re saying,” Jim snorts, he does, he thinks, he’s not as stupid as he looks, Bones is telling Jim that he cares about him, but for him to keep his conscience clean he needs to keep Jim and Christine away from each other. “But if you ask me to stay away I will,” Jim promises and he sees the relief flash through Bones’ eyes, but then there’s this sort of hollowness left.

Maybe Jim had started to take residence in Bones’ irises. How could he have missed that?

Bones puts his hand on Jim’s cheek, he leans in, as if he’s going to kiss Jim’s mouth, but he hesitates, pausing only an inch away from Jim’s lips. He pulls away and kisses Jim’s forehead.

But he pulls away then, looks down at the floor. He gets out at the next stop when the lift opens. It’s the sixth floor. Jim settles back into the wall of the lift, without air in his lungs and yet he’s panting hard. He gets out on the twelfth floor and he looks around the hallway.

Something occurs to him.

Bones didn’t ask him to stay away.

 

He says his goodbye to Pike and then to Spock.

"Live long and prosper," Spock says, just as he had the first time Jim had entered the arena – it’s the very same room, as if it’s gone totally unchanged. Jim only wishes the same could be said for him. He wishes his name had never been cast from that glass bowl on his first reaping and he wishes he’s not standing there again. But nothing can change now. He is powerless against the tide.

"I'll do my best Spock," Jim replies, a wry, honest, smile blooming over his face. Like a revelation, slow and steady.

"I was asked to bestow upon you a gift," Spock murmurs, turning them so his body shields Jim from the view of the security camera.

Spock pulls a thin chain from the breast pocket of his suit; it's a pale yellow, old and certainly not real gold: just plated, Jim assumes. Spock leans forward to fasten it around Jim’s neck; he steps back and nods his approval before guiding Jim into the glass lift. Jim looks down to see the flat, coin-shaped, pendent, there is a tree engraved into it. Jim frowns, confused.

Spock quirks his pointed, thinly-threaded eyebrows. Jim wants to ask about it, is it a last gift from Pike. What does the tree mean? He doesn’t though. The lift closes. Time ticks on.

"He trusts you, James," is the last thing Spock says. The last thing Jim hears before he's raised into the arena.


	3. Our Victory Was Our Defeat

Jim stands alone on the platform.

It's freezing. He's surrounded by _snow_. His first thought is to wonder at how deep it is, where he should plan to step off, how fast should he attempt to run? He catalogues what is close by: a small rucksack to the left of him; a litter of assorted items that trail towards the Cornucopia; a bow and quiver about twenty meters ahead of Hendorff who is on the platform beside him.

Bones is on a platform three tributes to his left, Jim cannot see Christine, she must be on the opposite side of the Cornucopia.

"May the odds be ever in your favour," One's voice floods in through the air, like a gust of wind, a snow storm, strong enough that Jim feels compelled to step back. But we won't be swept up in her tide. The countdown begins. He looks at Bones.

The tree. _He trusts you, James._ Spock’s words batter their way through Jim’s body, almost making his knees buckle.

The cannon fires.

Jim runs; headed straight for the Cornucopia, he can hear Pike voice in his head _don’t you dare run for the Cornucopia, you stupid son-of-a-bitch_. But he runs, runs as fast as his legs can while he’s ankle deep in snow. The snow gets shallower the closer he gets, he picks up speed and swoops down to catch the strap of one of the basic-supply rucksacks, swinging it onto his shoulder. The cannon fires twice in rapid succession. He doesn’t look back, prays it’s not Bones and Chapel, but he can’t look back, he bounds onto one of the lower levels of the Cornucopia, grabs hold of the bow, fist curled tight around it and gets the quiver swung safely onto the other shoulder.

The cannon booms again and Jim feels it thud straight through his heart. He looks around then, loses sight of his goal, tries to find a mess of dark hair amidst the too-white surroundings, it’s bedlam. Again the sound of the cannon fills the arena and Jim sees Mitchell snap Caitlin Barry’s neck. His stomach roils, he’s going to die, he can feel it.

The sound of a blade hurtling through the air startles him out of this panicked trance, he ducks and it imbeds itself into the wall of the Cornucopia where his throat would have been, he turns around, it’s Khan. He heaves the knife out of the wall and hurtles it at Khan, who anticipates the move and acts accordingly. He catches the hilt of the blade but Jim doesn’t hang around to see what’ll happen next.

He runs, makes for the woods that enclose the snowy graveyard surrounding the Cornucopia. 

He goes deep, doesn’t stop running. Just like Pike would have wanted. He hears the cannon sound thrice more, that’s seven down. Sixteen of them are left.

He should have guessed they’d be in the tundra, this Alpine wilderness; they’re wearing these newly designed lightweight snow-boots and thermals. Not that that makes it any less freezing. The jacket is still made of a thin waterproof material, more like a windbreaker than any sort of ski-jacket.

He runs until he can’t anymore, until he comes to a slight break in the dense forest.

He looks around, tries to think what he’s supposed to do. It’s so quiet, so pristine, but soon this untouched landscape will be spattered with blood. It seems almost criminal to host the Games here, on this blanket of freshly-fallen snow.

It reminds Jim of home in the winter, of the forest where he hunts. It’s a godsend, and it is a cruelty. He can navigate this landscape, he can survive it, but he may also get lost in it, lost in his memories, driven mad by the hauntings of his past.

He situates himself at the edge of the clearing, nestled against a boulder, and he checks the contents of his backpack. It contains an empty silver canister, a small tin of gauze, a box of twenty wooden matches, a packet of crackers, a roll of white cloth, not quite large enough, or thick enough, to act as a blanket and a length of rope.

Jim was mostly hoping for a sleeping bag, or at least a second fleece. The bag itself is white and grey camouflage, which is one positive, Jim supposes. He’s going to need to look for a fresh water supply, he could collect snow and wait for it to melt but you never can tell what surprises the capitol might have in store. They would not make it so obvious as to colour the snow yellow in warning, the pureness of it would undoubtedly allure some, but Jim isn’t convinced.

So instead Jim heads uphill, tries to search for a source, a spring of some kind, but it gets dark quickly, and he knows it’s not safe with the Career pack out there, six of them just dying to sink their weapons into Jim.

He won’t be able to sleep lying on the snow, knowing him he’d only end up with frost bite anyway, he takes to the trees, wraps his arms around himself because it’s the only way to maintain his body heat.

The Captiol’s anthem plays and Jim looks up at the sky, the first face is Lester’s, then both tributes from six, and eight – Jim’s head falls forward, Bones is okay, Christine is okay, he looks back up again, Caitlin Barry’s face and finally the male tribute from eleven.

Jim doesn’t know what he’ll do if he ever sees Bones’ face projected onto the sky. He needs to find them, he realises, because otherwise he’ll drive himself mad with worry. He needs to stay focused, and being away from Bones is just a distraction.

It’s still dark when he awakens, just a glimmer of sunlight pinching the horizon. He can hear voices, draws his bow, twenty-four arrows, he can’t afford to waste one, but the crackles of the forest are moving closer, he can hear voices.

“Aye, look ahead lass, a clearin’,” it’s Scott’s voice, of that Jim is sure, he trains his bow in the direction of the sound following it as it gets closer.

“Oh, Scotty,” the answering voice sighs, “it’s just more snow.”

“It’s somewhere we can rest a while,” another voice says, Jim would guess at Sulu.

The group immerge from the trees, Jim was right, Scott and Sulu, led by their two female companions, Marcus seems to be the one dismayed by snow, while the redhead, who Jim only knows as Gaila, surveys the area with a smile on her face.

“We’re not alone,” she says, nodding at Jim’s track of footprints, her eyes follow their route until they hit a tree, she looks up, catches Jim’s gaze.

“I won’t shoot,” Jim promises, but doesn’t set down his bow, “you can have the clearing, I was planning to go anyway,” he adds politely, keeps and air of deference in his tone.

“Looking for seven?” Gaila wonders.

“Yes,” Jim nods.

“Put the bow down, lad,” Scott says, “we’re ne lookin’ t’ scrap.”

Jim nods, lowers his bow, slipping the arrow back into the quiver. He makes his way down the tree trunk, heart pounding.

“Go,” Sulu urges, fist curled round a dagger, "before we change our mind."

Jim offers the group a final nod, he takes off at a run, heading through the trees as if there’s some chance they might have followed him.

He sees a flash of blonde hair and has to restrain himself from calling out Christine’s name. He ducks in behind a log, watching her as she does something to the tree she's stoog before; he’s too far away to get a good look, too far away to see what she’s doing and too far away to differentiate her from Rand.

He waits.

He lets out a breath when he sees Bones.

Jim lays his hand over his chest, pressing the cool metal of the pendant into his skin. He sighs and follows the path of the trees to get closer to them.

“It’s me,” Jim announces when Christine’s hand wrap around her own metal canister, as if to wield it like a weapon.

“Jim,” Bones turns to him, walks towards where the blonde hides amongst the trees. He’s smiling, so relieved. “I heard the cannon this mornin’,” he whispers, “I thought-”

“I’m fine,” Jim assures him letting himself be pulled into Bones’ arms, he’s warm and it’s a comfort like Jim’s never known.

“Great,” Christine smirks, rolling her eyes, “at least you’ll make good television.”

“Shut up,” Bones huffs, “you’re freezin’, kid,” he adds, turning back to Jim.

“We weren’t all lucky enough to find a ski-jacket,” Jim counters, squeezing at the padding of the jacket around Bones’ arms. “It’s a nice fit,” he smiles.

“It’s navy,” Bones scoffs, “it won’t do a great job of helpin’ us go unseen.”

The cannon goes off again.

“Now that’s two more,” Christine frowns, sorrow in her eyes.

“I saw three and five,” Jim states, “this morning, I doubt it’ll be one of them, they seem to have their act together.”

“’re you okay?” Bones questions with a worried frown, looking over Jim for signs of damage.

“They let me go,” Jim says, “without a fight.”

“Maybe we have allies,” Christine says, “here,” she gestures, Jim looks over to her, sees the spile imbedded in the tree.

“Why didn’t I get your backpack,” Jim mutters, stepping over to her with a grin, taking a much needed drink as the water spills from the tree.

“I’m sure yours has something useful in it,” Christine counters.

“Crackers,” Jim huffs, “mainly just crackers.”

“Now I know you’re lying,” she smirks.

“Some rope, gauze, a bit of cloth,” Jim lists, “maybe they knew we had a doctor around.”

“Maybe.”

 

The faces of the male tributes from nine and ten are the only faces that light the sky that night. People are fading fast and the Career troop already have the advantage. Jim tries to think of ways to split them up, or ways to covertly track them, but it’s too dangerous, especially when Bones won’t fight and won’t let Christine wander any closer to danger than is necessary. And by necessary Bones pretty much means as far away from the Career pack as they can get.

They've found an area of rock with an overhang, meaning the floor is dry and snow free and it's slightly sheltered. Bones had elected himself to take the first watch but Jim hadn't managed to sleep much, the stone floor was hard and he couldn't turn off the nagging voice in the back of his head that kept telling him Bones wasn't exactly safe just because he was the one that was awake.

But it's Jim's turn now. He watches on as Christine sleeps burrowed into Bones' side, his thick jacket draped over the both of them. He pointedly tries to convince himself he's not jealous. He doesn't do a very good job of it. Jim can't deny that he'd appreciate sharing in that warmth. It'd be completely ridiculous to even try to deny the damned obvious.

He wonders what Sam would say. Can he see love all over his little brother's face?

Love. It's not ideal. It's exceedingly inconvenient actually. But Jim can't help himself.

Something rustles in the distance to Jim's left. He can see the artificial light of a torch and he sinks back into their crevice. Shaking Bones' shoulder he whispers, "we've got to go, Bones," his voice wavers, he sounds scared even to his own ears. Bones startles awake, fisting his fingers in Jim's jacket.

They're so close.

But for the second time Jim's mouth goes decidedly _un_ kissed. Bones just stares at him with wide, curious eyes before he shakes Christine awake, hushing her half-cognizant mumbles

"Someone's coming," Jim whispers.

"You think we'll be safe hiding here," she asks Bones.

"No," Jim urges, we have to go.

"But then we risk gettin' seen," Bones murmurs, "we can't make a clean break outta here."

" _But_ if they find us, we're cornered," Jim reasons, "we can't just sit here and wait for them to come."

Jim hears the cracking of branches underfoot and he holds his breath. He leans over Christine to reach for his bow. But-

"That's funny," it's Mitchell's mocking tone, "to find a quiver of arrows so far from the bloodbath."

" _Kirk_ ," Khan's voice is harsh an accusing, as if Jim were stood right before him.

Jim eyes Bones sternly and mouths _stay_. He knows Bones will obey because Chapel is still nestled into him, like a chick under the wing of its mother. But Bones shakes his head, takes hold of Jim's wrist. He won't follow Jim out there but that doesn't mean he's not going to put up a fight for Jim to stay. But Jim pulls his wrist free and shuffles away.

"You got me," Jim says emerging from their little cave with his hands held up, edging around the rock. The Careers have come from the other side and shouldn't see their hole unless they kill Jim before he has a chance to lead them away. "I'd like my arrows back," he says, sneering at Mitchell.

"You should be more careful with your belongings then, James," Khan counters; Hendorff is stood behind him and Janice and Naitra flank Mitchell who is standing to Khan's left.

"In future, I will be," Jim nods politely.

If he makes it very far into the future, that is. He doubts he’ll be able to out run all five of them, especially with Mitchell now in possession of his weapon. Jim’s regretful that he never got a chance to say goodbye to Bones, maybe they’ll stumble across each other in some distant afterlife, and maybe there they can be happy together.

Khan steps forward, hand curling around the hilt of his knife.

Jim runs.

He can hear the trees rustle as he cuts through the branches, treading slower because of the snow. He knows two of them are on his tail, but he can’t hear the others; have they stayed by the rocky clearing, or are they going around him, hoping to catch him from the front?

He gets his answer when a knife flies at him from somewhere over to his left, it imbeds itself in his shoulder and Jim has to clamp his teeth down on his lower lip to keep from screaming. But it slows him down; he turns just in time to dodge Hendorff as he drives towards Jim.

“Lost your knife, cupcake?” Jim grits out, dodging Hendorff’s punches. Jim gets his bow loose with his other hand and swipes for Hendorff with it, slapping him across the face with the cold metal. Jim yanks the knife out of his shoulder and lunches for the older man, his body is huge, a brutal looking man. Jim misses, though and suddenly Naitra is on the other side of him, a length of wire stretched between her two hands.

He tries to take off running again but he slips on a part of the snow that is obviously overlaying ice. He looks around, it looks like they’re over a river. He can see the rise of what should be a bank on either side of them. Jim’s heart starts to race again, adrenaline spiking. If they don’t kill him, he could damn well fall through the ice and drown.

Naita must realise because she stops dead. By Hendorff bounds over to where Jim’s body is splayed over the ice and his weight must be too much… Jim can hear the cracking of the ice before he sees it, and suddenly Hendorff is no longer insight. Jim can hear the current under the ice, so there must still be a source flowing from somewhere, he can track the river back. If he makes it, he can show Bones and Christine, he can-

He feels woozy, blood is pumping out of his arm.

“No,” he hears Naitra say. He looks up and Rand is there, being held still by the other woman’s hands clamped around her shoulders like two vices.

“Ice,” Rand says, eyeing Jim and then the knife.

Jim isn’t sure what he sees next, he watches as Rand push Naitra forward, hard enough that Naitra buckles and ends up on her knees, the ice cracking around her, Rand steps back and looks at Jim.

But then the ice under Jim is cracking too and he’s floundering in the freezing water, soaked through even with the waterproof jacket. His arms are flailing, vying to grab hold of something, anything, that will help him out of the ice, but every time he gets his torso out of the water, the ice under him just breaks again.

He slips under again and he knows he’s not going to be able to heave himself out again, not with gash in his shoulder and the water filling his lungs as he gasps.

Everything’s starting to fade; he hears the cannon, and absently wonders if he’s dead. But there is another cannon.

And then there is a hand curled around the scruff of his jacket, pulling him out of the water, cold air hitting him even more harshly as he body readjusts.

“Don’t you die, Kirk,” Rand is looking down at him with too blue eyes, “my conscience couldn’t take it.”

“You-“

But Jim can’t do much more than shiver, teeth chattering violently.

“Pike made it worth my while,” Rand whispers, “now get on the other side of the bank; I’ll lead the guys away.”

“Thank you,” Jim whispers, his skin feels bruised all over, he crawls across the ice, trying to keep is weight spread evenly.

Rand sprints off in the other direction and the rustling of the trees quickly fades away and, when finally Jim manages to heave himself over the bank, effectively burying himself in a fresh patch of snow, the rest of the world falls away too.

 

“Thank _God_ ,” is the first thing Jim hears upon coming to, he blinks open his eyes to be greeted by the warmth of Bones’ hazel irises– they look relieved and Jim smiles. “You’re an idiot,” Bones whispers, taking Jim’s hand in his.

“Rand is… she’s on our side,” Jim murmurs, still vaguely surprised, but his voice is rough from the cold and the pain and Bones hushes him.

“Don’t talk,” he scolds gently, “you lost a lot of blood, I du’ know how you lasted as long as you did, when we found you I thought- I thought… you looked so pale, don’t ever do that to me again, kid.”

“I’ll try,” Jim smiles, weakly squeezing Bones’ hand.

“The woman from ten is dead, along with Naitra and Hendorff,” Bones whispers.

“We’re not even four days in yet,” Christine says from her perch on a log over to the left of them, sighing, “and half of us are already dead.”

“But the career pack is practically demolished,” Jim counters, breathing still quite shallow.

“Khan and Mitchell are still goin’ strong though,” Bones counters, “they were the main force to begin with.”

“But Rand’s not a threat, least we know that,” Jim murmurs.

“How do we know that?” Bones questions, “what happened, Jim?”

“I was drowning, slipped through the ice, she saved me… she could have killed me but she let me go,” Jim recounts, frowning, he doesn’t remember much: the overwhelming cold; the pins and needles pressing all over his skin; gasping for air; the throbbing in his shoulder.

“Don’t move,” Bones says, catching Jim’s wrist as he tries to reach over to check his shoulder. “you need to rest it, I’ve bound it as best I can but it’s pretty bad Jim, ideally I’d want surgical-seal but this is anythin’ but ideal.”

“Bones,” Jim says weakly, and the brunette looks down at him, eyes worried and jaw tense. “You’re really pretty, you know,” Jim breathes, “even when you’re scowling.”

“Jim,” Bones frowns, moving the hair out of the teen’s eyes, “behave.”

“Just saying what I see,” Jim smiles, “might not get another chance,” he whispers, eyes glancing over his shoulder, “it hurts, Bones, it’s bad.”

“It’s okay,” Bones counters, shaking his head, “I got you, kid.”

“Jim,” he reminds.

“Jim,” Bones agrees.

“We need to find arrows,” Jim states.

“You’re not really in the position to do anythin’,” Bones huffs.

“There’s a gift,” Christine says softly, and Jim’s gaze flickers over to where her finger is pointing. It’s a vial of some sort.

“Surgical seal,” Bones sighs with relief, a smile on his face, “least someone’s listenin’ to me.”

Bones gently unfolds the sling he’d made around Jim’s shoulder and the gauze he’d wrapped the wound in, cleaning it with water they’d kept in the canister from Jim’s rucksack that they’d collected with the spile. Jim grunts from the sting, it’s still bleeding sluggishly, the gash to wide to even begin to scab over. Bones’ holds Jim still with a hand pressed down onto his chest, he mutters about fidgeting infants and starts to smear the gel over the wound.

It turns and Jim makes an unamused sound at the back of his throat.

“I know it’s real sore, kid,” Bones starts, “it’ll get easier.”

“I wish I didn’t know you,” Jim whimpers.

“Don’t be such an infant,” Bones smiles, leaning forward to kiss Jim’s cheek. Jim’s eyes widen and he stares at Bones, both men unblinking. “Sorry,” Bones says quickly, shuffling back from Jim but Jim holds out his hand. They look at each other for a few more long seconds before Bones smiles, takes Jim’s hand in his and links their fingers.

“Huh,” Christine says, “there’s another one.”

“What?” Bones turns around, skittishly pulling his hand back.

“Another gift,” she says, walking towards them, “it’s for you, Leo.”

“Me?” Bones frowns, “what is it?”

“It’s in a silver box,” Christine scoffs, “I’m smart, not omniscient.”

“Don’t be cheeky,” Bones snorts, taking the proffered box he looks inside it. He frowns, “a peach scone,” he murmurs. Jim can see there’s a note with it but Bones doesn’t say anything else. “Break it in half,” he says to Christine, “you an’ Jim can have it.”

“Bones,” Jim calls, but Bones is already headed away to sit on Christine’s log.

“You two need to sleep,” is all Bones says, “I’ll take this watch.”

“You _should_ rest up, Jim,” Christine says with a smile, “you’ll need a lot of sleep to heal that shoulder.”

Christine rewraps Bones’ abandoned dressing and gently massages the join of Jim’s elbow, “I’ll open up the sleeping bag,” she offers, “we can both fit under it that way.”

“Thanks,” Jim mumbles absently, eyes still fixed on the back of Bones’ head, watching him reread the note in his hands. Chapel pulls the sleeping bag open and lays it over them, they lay unwounded-shoulder to shoulder, breathing in unison.

“He cares about you,” Christine whispers, “I’m sorry it had to happen like this, Leo deserves someone who makes him smile, he doesn’t deserve to be back here.”

“Neither do you,” Jim says, running his hand over her forearm, “but I’ll do my best to keep you safe, Christine, because you’re important to him, and he’s… he’s important to me.”

“I can see that,” and he can hear the small smile in her voice, “it’s strange, how things come about.”

“A little impractical,” Jim jibes.

“Hmm,” Christine agrees sleepily, “I’m sure he’ll give in soon enough, though, he really was frantic when you left, I’ve never… I haven’t seen him that worried since last year, screaming at the screen when Nero killed our Geoffrey,” Christine remembers.

“I couldn’t let them find you,” Jim whispers.

“You owe us nothing,” Christine counters earnestly.

“That’s not true,” Jim says.

“And if it comes down to it?” Christine prompts.

“I don’t know, I’ll leave, let the Game Makers devise something,” Jim shrugs.

 They fall into silence then, Christine might have even fallen asleep, but Jim can’t, he just stares at Bones who is looking out over the snow, his head raised slightly to scan through the Pines. Jim shuffles quietly out from under the sleeping bag, making his way over to the log.

“Go back to sleep, Jim,” Bones says softly.

“What was on the note?” Jim counters.

“None of your damn business,” Bones huffs.

“We didn’t eat the scone,” Jim says nudging Bones gently with his good shoulder, “you should have some, I never really had peach before, I could be allergic.”

“Oh, so _now_ you worry about your health, not when you practically give yourself up to the Career pack, like a damn lamb to the slaughter?” Bones demands.

“But I’m still here, aren’t I?” Jim shrugs, and then winces.

“Hmm,” Bones scoffs, “just about.”

“We should move into the trees when it gets dark,” Jim says, “this clearing doesn’t offer much concealment.”

“We were in a damn cave and we got found out,” Bones huffs, “I don’t see that hiding is a’ much help.”

“Maybe not,” Jim says, “but it’ll make me feel safer.”

Bones looks at him, for the first time in what feels like hours, and nods. Jim sighs, smiling slightly but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He rests his head on Bones’ shoulder and he feels Bones relax against him, “what did the note say?” Jim asks again.

“Remember what’s important,” Bones whispers, “it was from Boyce.”

“And the peach scone is significant how?” Jim wonders.

“We have peaches at home, in district seven, in the Victor’s village. You’re a distraction,” Bones explains.

“From keeping Christine safe,” Jim surmises, “I don’t mean to be.”

“I know,” Bones smiles, snaking his arm around Jim’s waste, mindful of his shoulder.

“Can I ask you something else?” Jim wonders.

“I guess,” Bones shrugs, “might not answer.”

“I don’t expect you too,” Jim admits, “but, ah, what’s with the necklace?”

“You’re not men’a know it’s from me,” Bones smiles tiredly, he takes a deep breath and exhales a white cloud into the air, “it was my mothers, snuck it into my Games the first time round, thought it might bring you some luck, look after you if you decided to go it alone.”

“And because you trust me, Spock said so,” Jim adds.

“And because I trust you,” Bones nods.

“I wish we weren’t here,” Jim whispers, “wish this hadn’t of happened to us.”

“I know, Jim,” Bones nods, squeezing his waist, pulling Jim closer.

“I need to go back to the Cornucopia, Bones,” Jim adds after a moment of holding his breath, “I’m gonna need arrows.”

“Tomorrow, Jim,” Bones promises, “right now you should sleep.”

“I might wake Christine,” Jim says, turning back to look at her curled up frame, burrowed into the sleeping bag, Jim’s side now folded underneath her.

“Then stay here,” Bones says, “I’ve got you.”

 

Jim wakes to the sound of a cannon, it’s dark now, the sun’s just about fully set. Christine’s awake again, she’s sitting on the other side of Bones, they’re chattering quietly, no doubt making predictions about who it is. Another cannon goes off and Bones looks over at Jim, as if he might have slipped through his fingers while sleeping.

“Jim,” he says and Jim just nods.

“’m ‘wake,” he murmurs, burrowing into Bones’ warmth, only slightly aware that that means he’s nuzzling Bones’ ribcage. Bones laughs and smooths his hand through Jim hair.

“Have some of the scone, then we’re gonna take to the trees, if you can manage it,” Bones explains.

“And if I’m allergic to peaches?” Jim smirks.

“Then we’d never have worked anyway,” Bones jibes, holding the silver tin out for Jim to take, “an’ here, you need to keep hydrated,” he adds, handing Jim the water canister.

Sulu and the female tribute for eleven are the faces that grace the sky that night, soon after midnight though, another cannon booms through the air, seeming to shake the snow off the branches.

Bones decides it’s time to take to the trees, Christine goes before them, finds a high branch that’s strong enough to support her weight, Bones helps Jim settle onto one close by, making sure not to jostle Jim’s shoulder as much as it’s in his power to do so. Jim watches Bones curl onto the branch beside Jim’s, taking his hand and squeezing it before they both wrap their arms around themselves and try and find some sleep.

On the start of day six there are only eight tributes left, Jim wonders if Scott and Gaila killed Marcus after Sulu died, he wonders if they’ve turned on each other yet… or have they agreed to go their separate ways?

When it’s light enough they descend from the trees, trying to navigate their way back to the Cornucopia, trying to weave their way through the dense forest as quietly as possible.

Jim knows they’re starting to get close because the forest is starting to thin out, the snow getting deeper as they head downhill.

Jim knows they’re starting to get very close when an arrow flies past his face, almost slicing through the skin on his cheek bone.

“Get down,” he warns, doubling back to yank the arrow out of the tree trunk it’s found itself imbedded in; he raises his bow, aims for the trees first but doesn’t see anything, another arrow flies from the left of him and Jim pivots and lets the arrow go, he hears a winded, guttural ‘oomph’ but another arrow flies. “Bones, we have to go around,” Jim hisses, pulling the second arrow off the floor, but there isn’t time to locate the third, he clips it into the bow and raises it, trying to spot any slight rustle in the trees. Another arrow flies the sound of the cannon follows it and Jim swings around.

“Bones!” He screams; there’s so much blood.

“Jim,” Bones looks up helplessly, trying to stem the blood flow, Christine’s got the shaft of the arrow half way through her throat, Bones got both hands around her neck, trying to keep pressure on the wound, halt the bleeding, “Christine, darlin’ hold on, come on now girl, you hold on,”

Christine’s muscles contract and her vocal chords seem to manage a broken choking sound, followed by something like a gasp; blood gurgles in her mouth and continues to ebb from her throat.

“Shh,” Bones hushes, terrified, angry tears in his eyes, “shh, I’m here,” he murmurs, “I’ve got you.”

Another arrow hurtles towards Jim and he dodges, hits the snow and the hard ground beneath it, rolling towards Bones he reaches out for him. But Bones won’t budge; he’s got Christine, dead, cradled in his arms, rocking her, hands loosening.

There’s so much blood.

“Bones, we’ve gotta go,” Jim breathes, tugging at him, “Bones, _now_!”

“I can’t,” Bones mumbles, “I can’t.”

“You have to,” Jim urges, encircling the fist of his good arm around Bones’ biceps to pull him up, pull him away from Christine’s lifeless body. “She’s gone, Bones,” Jim whispers, “please, Bones.”

Because Jim’s scared, because he’s seventeen, he doesn’t want to die, he doesn’t want _Bones_ to die. So they need to go.

Bones lets himself be pulled away, eyes still clinging onto Christine’s prone form. Jim ducks down again and pulls her backpack off of her shoulder, heaving it onto his own injured one as he starts to run. His hand is tight enough around Bones’ arm that it must be bruising, but Bones doesn’t seem to be quite aware of what’s going on, his legs moving almost without his consent.

When they seem to have made enough headway Jim throws Bones down behind a mound of snow. Jim is panting; his shoulder still aches even though the only reminder of the injury is now a thin pinkish scar. Bones doesn’t say anything, just lets the tears slowly track down his cheeks.

Jim takes his hand and Bones lets him. They sit there, together, until it’s dark, another cannon goes off.

“I’m sorry,” Jim whispers, linking their fingers more snugly.

Gaila, Christine and Rand’s faces are the ones that light the sky. Jim frowns.

“I’d have liked to have said thank you,” he whispers.

“To Rand?” Bones wonders.

“And Gaila,” Jim nods, “seems like I’ve had a lot of people looking out for me.”

“We shouldn’t have tried to get back to the Cornucopia,” Bones says, “I knew we shouldn’t have, I shouldn’t have let you talk me into it,” he adds, pulling his hand away from Jim’s.

“Bones?” Jim frowns, voice small, childish, confused.

“She’s dead, Jim,” Bones says, with anger and resentment in his eyes, “she’s not meant to be dead.”

“I know,” Jim whispers, “but you can’t- you don’t know that they wouldn’t have got us anyway.”

“I _can_ know that it wouldn’t have been then, wouldn’t have been like that,” Bones huffs, “it was selfish to lead us back there.”

“Selfish?” Jim questions, brows knitting together. Bones isn’t meant to be saying this, Jim understands he needs to grieve, needs to rage, even, but not like this. Jim never meant for Christine to get hurt.

“She’s dead, Jim,” Bones repeats, voice no more than a whisper, “and they were _your_ arrows.”

Jim sucks in a surprised breath, knows that Bones is saying that he might not have taken aim and shot Christine but his ambition, his need to fight, is what got her killed.

“Don’t say that,” Jim pleads, “you know I never _meant_ for her to get hurt, that I would _never_ have hurt her.”

“I don’t know shit anymore,” Bones huffs, “an’ I don’t much care for your excuses.”

“Bones,” Jim reasons.

“I can’t,” Bones cuts in, “I can’t right now, Jim, I just-”

“Okay,” Jim murmurs, shuffling away, “okay,” he repeats, raising his eyes to the sky to keep the tears from falling.

Maybe he was selfish, maybe it was blind ambition, _pride_ , _vanity_ , that drove him back to the Cornucopia. Maybe if he’d have just left well alone, made do with Hendorff’s knife, this never would have happened. Christine would still be here, and Bones wouldn’t be looking at Jim like he’s a murderer.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

But Bones doesn’t answer. 


	4. Where On the Deck My Captain Lies

Jim wakes up sometime before the sun’s fully risen, he’s shivering, mostly because it’s freezing but also because the shoulder of his clothes have been torn open, his skin is purplish, bruised from the wind.

“Bones,” Jim whispers, teeth chattering. He turns to shake Bones’ shoulder but realises there is a head in his lap, which belongs to Bones. Jim smiles, carding his fingers through Bones’ thick hair; he likes the contrast of his pale, pinkish, fingers against the dark, chocolate-y, strands.

“Jim?” Bones murmurs, cracking one eye open, clearly trying to orientate himself, “you’re shaking.”

“’m just cold,” Jim reassures, just happy for Bones to be talking to him again, looking at him like he matters.

“Come here, kid,” Bones says, sitting up, unzipping his coat and slipping an arm out of it he pulls Jim towards him with a hand around Jim’s waist. Jim automatically burrows into the warmth. “’m sorry,” Bones whispers, “’bout what I said last night, it wasn’t, I was angry at myself an’ I took it out of you-”

“No, Bones it’s fi-”

“It’s not _fine_ , goddammit, Jim! You saved our lives the other day, got yourself _stabbed_ , no less, an’ I- I just… you take it out on the ones you… the ones you care ‘bout, I figure,” Bones says, pulling Jim closer, “not that it’s any excuse.”

“I care about you too,” Jim admits, resting his head against Bones’ chest.

“I can’t lose you, Jim,” Bones whispers, “promise me you won’t go, promise I won’t have to watch you die like Christine.”

“I promise,” Jim replies, even though he’s not sure he’s at liberty to make those sorts of promises. “Can I ask you something?” Jim wonders, trying to not fall back to sleep now that he’s got Bones’ warm chest pressed against him.

“Sure, Jim,” Bones nods.

“Are your- I mean… have you had work done?” Jim blurts, “it’s just your lips are-”

“Are what, Jim?” Bones prompts.

 _Obscene_ , Jim thinks, “very nice,” he says.

“Are you askin’ me if I’ve had _plastic surgery_?” Bones scoffs.

“It’s just-” Jim turns to face Bones, their lips are too close again and this time he’s not going to back down. He presses his lips to Bones’, taking the little yelp of surprise, which reverberates in Bones’ throat, in his stride before trying to deepen the kiss. Bones’ mouth is yielding and easy against his, and their tentative press of lips soon develops into open mouthed kissing that steals the air right out of Jim’s lungs. It leaves him breathless. Jim has drowned, he knows what it’s like to feel winded, to be gasping, but this, this is something else entirely. If this is drowning, Jim welcomes it.

When he pulls away Bones’ cheeks are red, Jim can’t say whether it’s from their ministrations or whether it’s due to the wind, although he sincerely hopes it’s the former.

“I haven’t,” Bones smirks, “had surgery, I mean.”

“You didn’t seem the type,” Jim snorts softly, turning to smile at him, it’s worn around the edges, tinged with sadness, but it’s the only brightness he can offer Bones in the wintery dawn, “we should try and find shelter,” he suggests.

“You don’t wanna head to the Cornucopia, see if there’re more arrows?” Bones wonders, shrugging all the way out of the coat and zipping it up for Jim. Looking at him with a gentle smile, urging him not to argue, just to let Bones do this for him. It’s not as cold now that the sun’s up and Jim’s sure they’ll both be in it again by the time night falls and they’re ready to sleep.

“I don’t wanna do anything you don't wanna do,” Jim whispers, turning his head to kiss Bones’ jaw, “I wanna keep you safe.”

“I think that’s my job, kid,” Bones smiles, resting his cheek on Jim’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to protect me, Bones,” Jim whispers, “in the end, when it comes down to it-”

_He’ll kiss you on the forehead and throw himself off a cliff._

“Don’t, Jim,” Bones counters, pressing their lips together again. It’s an avoidance tactic, Jim knows, but he can’t help but let Bones kiss him, he feels safe and warm. The goal now is to survive together, until it’s just them, then Jim will think of something; Bones made the Games mean something, maybe he can do it again. Maybe Jim can be a part of that.

Jim hands Bones his bow and shoulder’s his backpack properly before they start the trek against the gradient. They come to a clearing, Jim holds Bones back in the trees, hand curling around the bow which is still in Bones’ grip.

“Oh,” he whispers, smiling.

There is a Snowshoe hare perched, just watching the other direction, Jim holds his hand out to get to the bow but Bones shakes his head, “let me take care of you,” he murmurs. To Jim, something seems wrong about this, Bones volunteering to kill, even if it is only hunting. It seems so wholly out of character that Jim is ready to argue with him, and snatch back his bow. But then something dawns on Jim, Bones is psyching himself up, he’s making sure he _can_ shoot, if he has to. He’s making sure he can protect Jim. This is practice.

Bones pulls back the bow, aims.

Jim doesn’t want Bones to psych himself up, doesn’t want Bones to fight. Especially not with how awkward Bones’ stance currently is, arm twisted in all the wrong way. He goes to put his hand on Bones’ arm to lower the bow. But something startles on the other side of the clearing and the arrow flies, the bow string snapping back against his other arm.

“Dammit,” Bones huffs, panting out a sharp, winded breath. The arrow doesn’t hit the hare and a fox comes along from the other side of the clearing and gives chase, the hare bounding off in the opposite direction.

“Shit,” Jim says, cradling Bones’ forearm, “that’s gonna be bad, we’ll get you sat down somewhere, we’ll have to make a snow wrap or something.”

“How do you know?” Bones pants out another breath, mouth parted in a forced little ‘o’ shape, “you can’t see it.”

“When I was, ah, eleven, maybe twelve, I was shooting with a bow too big for me, made me shoot awkwardly, similar thing happened, the bruising was pretty bad,” Jim explains.

They crouch in between a tight cluster of trees, Jim easing out of Bones’ ski jacket so he can lay it against the rock Bone’s is lent up against.  Bones winces, trying to keep his arm as still as possible as Jim fumbles around him. Jim can only imagine the deep ache, the dark bruising, and it’s not going to get much better any time soon; with only a thin thermal layer and a fleece protecting Bones’ skin he can imagine the yellows and greens and purples already starting to build, blooming into dark, angry purples, with a red welt to mark the line of the bow string. Bones shifts, using the hand of his other arm to lift the hem of his shirt and undershirt up.

“Bones, it’s freezing,” Jim says, frowning. 

“I need to see the bruise,” Bones huffs, “you’re gonna need ta help.”

“Right,” Jim nods, cold fingers, gently pulling up the other side of the fabric, trying to easy it up Bones’ abdomen, Bones’ muscles shudder under his touch and Jim murmurs an apology.

“Jus’ ticklish,” Bones admits with a slight blush.

Jim smiles gently and continues to ease Bones out of his layers, taking extra pains not to touch his elbow when he has to pull off the arm of his shirts.

“Shit,” Jim hisses, wincing at the sight of the tarnished skin, the bruising seems somehow florid though, to Jim’s eyes, with its almost artistic bursts of purples and blues, fading out to red as it travels up his biceps and down to his forearm. It’s such a contrast to the fading tan of Bones’ skin and the white blanket of snow that surrounds them. Jim softly traces his fingers around the outline of the raised skin, watching Bones frown, “tell me what to do,” Jim says.

“Get the cloth and we’ll make a snow wrap, try and dull the pain,” Bones breathes.

Jim follows Bones’ instructions down to the letter, enveloping snow in the cloth, leaving enough overhang material to tie it to Bones’ arm. But Bones winces from the pressure of it and Jim huffs, he tells Bones to relax instead, pulling the snow wrap away to make it into more of an icepack and holds it against Bones himself, hands freezing but it’s not the sort of discomfort he can’t handle yet.

“You get frostbite an’ I’ll smack you so hard upside the head you won’t walk straight,” Bones huffs weakly, pouting when Jim laughs at his futile attempt to act authoritarian.

“Let’s worry about you for now,” Jim says, shifting so he’s lain in between Bones’ strewn open thighs, pressing his back into Bones’ chest, trying to blanket him from the chill, Bones manages to get his good arm back into his coat, and slips the shoulder of the other side on, leaving his arm out so Jim can continue to hold the ice to him. It’s awkward, but it’s the best way for them to keep warm, especially with Bones currently shirtless and the wind picking up.

 

They’re not ready when the blizzard comes; they’re not ready for the fierce wind that kicks the snow up off the ground and pelts the freshly falling hail in their direction. They manage to make it back to their old cave; it seems bigger than Jim remembers. _Christine_ , he thinks, the loss hits him in waves and he lays his head on Bones’ chest. Clinging: needy and mournful; but not a touch on what Bones must be feeling. They’re lying down now, Bones’ arm lain out straight with the snow wrap lain over his elbow. Jim has tucked Bones back into his ski-jacket to the best of his ability and has the sleeping bag opened out over the both of them, Jim’s turned into Bones, their legs tangled. It’s like they’re fighting to get closer, each one inching forward in increments; if they could they would merge together, then neither of them would have to be the one who wins, alone on the Victor’s tour for a second time.

When they wake up the next morning the skin of the bruise is black, but Bones assures Jim that it hurts less, and Jim begrudgingly re-clothes Bones, blushing all the way through.

“You okay, kid?” Bones smirks.

“You have a very nice torso,” Jim mutters, pushing Bones back against the cave wall, settling into his new residence within the crook of Bones’ good arm, warm hand massaging circles into his waist. They watch out the mouth of the cave as the snow falls, like white static, unrelenting, the wind still hurtling its direction all over the place, no rhyme or reason.

“You think we’re being targeted? That that's what this blizzard is about?” Jim wonders.

“Maybe,” Bones shrugs, “I’m hurt, we’ve got no food, we’re in no hurry to kill each other, doesn’t seem like great entertainment. So we either go out and face _that_ or we stay in here and starve.”

“You don’t think they approve of the kissing?” Jim asks, turning to glance coyly at Bones, who scoffs.

“Don’t much care,” Bones says, “ _I_ approve.”

“Oh, do you now?” Jim smirks, leaning to place his lips at the side of Bones’ teasingly, pulling away after a quick, open-mouthed, peck. Bones’ reaches his head forward to chase Jim’s mouth, but Jim just tips his chin back and laughs; playfully trying to evade Bones until the old man gives up on catching Jim and instead begins to place soft kisses to his neck. 

It raises the hairs at Jim’s nape and he’s near certain he’s blushing, but he stills, letting Bones’ mouth work over him, tender and slow.

He wishes they could have this moment in the privacy of his bedroom, back home in district twelve: no camera’s; no audience; just the comfort and safety of four walls, huddled close under the duvet and blankets. But they’ll never have a moment like this outside the arena, because one of them isn’t going to _make it_ outside the arena. And the ‘one of them’, of course, will be Jim.

He kisses Bones’ jaw, slowly raising his hand to cup Bones’ other cheek, bringing their lips together.

The cannon fires and they pull apart.

“Scott or Marcus?” Bones asks.

“Mitchell, I hope,” Jim whispers, “s’not exactly like Khan needs to keep him around anymore, there aren’t any huge groups to face.”

The cannon fires again.

Jim looks at Bones and sighs, “we need to get out of this cave, find food, maybe get you something for the bruising, if we can, get more arrows.

“You wanna go to the Cornucopia?” Bones says, dismay and fear in his eyes, he wants to object but he doesn’t, instead he nods, “I’ll follow you wherever you go, Jim, you have to know that by now.”

It’s only the eighth day in the arena, but yes, Jim does know that. Not that it’s something he _likes_ , as such; it seems dangerous, for Bones to so readily follow him. Jim could lead him anywhere, astray; he’ll try not to. He’ll try his damned hardest.

“You know you don’t have to come with me,” Jim reminds, “I c-”

“I think we both know that’s not true,” Bones says, “that we’re past that now.”

“Yeah,” Jim sighs, linking his fingers with Bones’, “I guess we are.”

“Let’s wait a little longer,” Bones whispers, tugging Jim closer to him, “just until there’s half a sign of this snowstorm settlin’,” he adds, voice muffled against the skin of Jim’s neck.

“Bones,” Jim whispers, as the healer’s hot hands slip under Jim’s layers of fleece and cotton and nylon, “what’re you-”

“I just wanna hold you, kid,” Bones whispers, “keep you safe an’ warm.”

“Bones, I-”

But Jim doesn’t say it; instead he turns his head to kiss Bones again, licking his tongue into the warm sanctuary of Bones’ mouth. Saying everything he needs to without having to speak a single word. Bones’ hands are on his waist, they’re at an awkward angle, being in such close quarters, so Jim wraps his arms around Bones’ neck, bringing them closer together. And it gives Jim something to hold onto, something that he can tie himself to, nothing to do with the Games or this arena, no worry over that bone deep chill, or the hunger pangs alight like small sparks in his belly.

Bones fingers slip down into the waistband of Jim’s pants, rubbing over the soft skin of his hip, the other hand pressed into the small of Jim’s back to keep them held together. It makes Jim feel precious; maybe Bones is afraid that if he doesn’t keep a tight hold of Jim, the teen will slip through his fingers. 

“Kiss me like no one’s watchin’,” Bones whispers against Jim’s jaw, “like it’s jus’ us.”

Jim twists his fingers in Bones’ hair, pulling their foreheads together, they look at each other, blinking; their breathing is so loud, reverberations in the small rocky burrow they’ve made for themselves. Jim hesitantly leans forward, touching his lips to Bones’, the older man just as tentative. This is different, this is another step again, the next jump in their relationship. Jim’s nervous again, wonders what Pike would say, and Spock too. How illogical is this course of action? Is he breaking his mother’s heart? He opens his mouth, sucking on Bones’ lower lip before the doctor consents to parting his own.

Their kissing is slow and deep: an attempt to devour something that will soon be lost, at least if _they_ are the ones to consume each other this, what they have, can never be overlooked, it will not go unremembered or ignored. Jim wants to give Bones a memory worth carrying with him, a memory worth all this carnage.

Bones fingers fumble as they try to undo Jim’s fly, Jim knows in an ideal world there wouldn’t be a reason to rush. Bones could take his time; take Jim apart piece by piece before carefully restoring the jigsaw puzzle. Jim lifts one of his own hands from the Bones’ nape, slipping it inside the sleeping bag to shove his pants down his thighs, soft skin rubbing against the cold material of Bones’ thin salopettes.

Jim shifts his hips into Bones’ hands; his palms are warm and they raise goose-bumps on Jim’s ribcage.

Bones wraps his fingers around Jim, stroking him slowly, coaxing his erection to life. Jim’s heart is racing, but he finds himself rocking his hips forward, the desire to do this with Bones is greater than his fear of the consequences – so he bucks forward a little more eagerly, the pads of his fingers pressing into the skin a Bones’ nape – he needs something to hold onto, something steady, Bones is his best bet. So he does, he clings to Bones as the older man’s hand works over him. It’s just them, Jim thinks, even if the whole Capitol is watching, right now, it’s just them.

He can feel the lick of fire on the inside of his abdomen, travelling lower, coiling at his core, his hips shudder and the sleeping-bag shifts, he can feel the cold gust of wind on his lower back, Bones uses his other hand to pull Jim closer, hand warm on the back of his thigh. Jim gasps, the sound bouncing of the walls of their enclosure – it makes Jim’s heart rattle in his ribcage, stuttering into his climax. His fingers clutch at the thick, dark, hair at Bones’ nape as he empties himself in the space between them.

He can feel Bones’ smile against his cheek and then his lips press against Jim’s forehead. _Oh no_ , Jim thinks, because this is it now: he has Bones’ loyalty, and it’ll make them both do stupid things.

“You’re beautiful, Jim,” Bones whispers into the darkness, “so beautiful.”

“No,” Jim shakes his head, “don’t, please don’t,” _don’t fall for me, Bones, please don’t._

“I can’t help it,” Bones says, and Jim’s left wondering if he said that last part aloud, or whether Bones has just decided to face up to the inevitable-ness of it all, why deny what’s hopelessly obvious.

Jim sees a glint of silver at the mouth of their cave, he rubs a hand over Bones’ cheek, kisses the side of his mouth, and reaches over, the box is slightly bigger than his palm span and so he has to reach with both arms, Bones pulling his trousers back up around his hips.

“Thanks,” Jim mutters bashfully, setting the box down and tucking himself back in.

“Open it then,” Bones encourages.

It’s a tub of Arnica, with a note in Pike’s writing, _get out of there and get to the cornucopia – don’t lose sight_.

“Complements of Christopher Pike,” Jim says, holding up the small tub, he fakes a smile to overcome the lingering bitterness of the note, “here, take your jacket off, I’ll rub it in.

“I can do it,” Bones offers.

“Let me,” Jim smiles, gently now, and real – just for Bones, “please.”

Bones nods, smiling too, and the next few minutes pass, just like that; throwing sweet smiles at each other, Jim softly massaging circles into Bones’ purpled skin, while Bones pretends he’s not wincing.

But the sweet smiles are only masking the trepidation within, Jim’s sure Bones knows this too, but it goes unspoken between them.

There are four left in the arena now.

This will be the last day of the Quarter Quell.

They’re trying to make it count.

Jim sets down the tub and kisses Bones, Jim wants it to be the sort of life affirming kiss that famous authors in the Capitol write about, romantic and earth-shattering, but all he can feel is the fear between them, it tastes like the end – ashen. It’s sharp like the edges of broken glass, cutting at Jim with every lick and pull of his tongue.

“I’m scared, Bones,” Jim admits.

“You’re gonna be fine, kid,” Bones assures, “I swear it.”

“No,” Jim shakes his head.

“Don’t you argue with me on this,” Bones scoffs, “promise me, promise me you’ll try, don’t throw it away.”

“I can’t,” Jim says, “I can’t watch you die.”

“You have to promise me you’ll try, that you’ll run if you have to, an’ keep runnin’,” Bones breathes, “this isn’t your year to die, Jim, it’s not.”

“It’s not yours either,” Jim grits out, tears threatening to spill, “I don’t want you to die.”

“Shh,” Bones hushes, holding Jim close, wrapping both arms around him even though it must hurt. But that’s their love summed up, isn’t it? It’s painful for them to love each other, they are broken and bruised and loving each other, like this, in the Games, just makes it that much worse – not better. It’s not healing, it’s a tug of war on who has the monopoly over death. A fight for the right to die.

Their love must look corrosive to those watching, Jim thinks, pure destruction. A forest fire that can’t be quenched.

Jim would set the Pine trees alight if he could, he would burn this Arctic Hell down around them if he could.

“Jim,” Bones whispers, cutting through his haze, “someone’s coming.”

Jim turns his head, tries to hear whatever it is Bones must have heard; the breaking of small branches underfoot, but a lighter step than Khan’s.

Jim shifts away from Bones, sticks his head out of the cave even though Bones is trying to pull him back.

“Marcus?” Jim questions, she turns to face him, she’s weaponless, but she looks better fed than either Jim or Bones; she looks strong.

“It’s just us, McCoy and Khan,” she whispers, “he killed Scotty,” she adds, slight manic look in her eye.

“And Gaila?”

“No, she got hurt, fell from a tree, it got infected, she was screaming…” Carol hisses, “I had to.”

“Oh,” Jim frowns, and then nods, “I’m sorry, about Scott.”

“Did you find McCoy?” She asks, eyeing the cave.

“No,” Jim shakes his head, “the girl died though,” he adds, Christine’s face clear in his mind, “he probably went uphill, away from the Cornucopia.”

“You’re probably right,” she says, her eyes flicking over to the East.

There’s another sound, coming closer; a heavy, determined, tread of boots in snow.

“Shit,” Jim hisses, scrambling back inside the cave, pulling the bow out from under Bones, _stay there_ , he mouths. Bones scowls, trying to edge past Jim, Jim pushes down on his bruise, still uncovered – trying to let the cream dry. Bones jaw tenses trying to hold back a cry of pain, he frowns at Jim, shaking his head. _Stay_ , Jim mouths again, reaching for their last arrow, _I’ll make it count_ , he promises.

Carol’s frantically trying to climb up a tree when Jim pulls crawls back out of the cave. It’s not surprising, she doesn’t owe him anything.

The flash of Khan’s black hair is enough to set Jim’s heart thumping, he wouldn’t be surprised if Khan could hear it, it feels like the tattoo of war drums, pounding against his sternum.

“We meet again, James,” he grins.

“Yeah,” Jim tries to smirk, “but you’re all alone this time.”

“But you’re not,” Khan grins, eyes flicking over to the cave.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jim frowns, “after Christine… he left.”

“Liar,” Khan whispers, almost like he’s mouthing it.

“Please,” Jim counters, stepping closer to the mouth of the cave.

“He’s a clever man,” Khan grants, “letting you do the dirty work.”

Jim prays Bones won’t take the bait, won’t bite. _Just stay put_ , he thinks, _please._

“You’re foolish, James, to protect something you can’t keep,” Khan states, and then he suddenly turns, arm pulling a knife from god-knows-where and he launches it into the trees and Jim is so confused until he hears the cannon and the thump of a body against the ground and he turns to see the knife buried in Carol’s skull.

“Oh, God,” Jim whispers, stepping back in time with Khan’s step forward. Jim frowns, has Khan left himself weaponless? He hoists his bow up, aiming for his heart, he fires, Khan ducks just in time for the arrow to barely even catch his shoulder, Jim looks around, trying to find something, _anything_ , to use.

“Jim!” Bones calls, emerging from the cave; he’s wearing his ski jacket and one of their rucksacks, but not his under-layers. He’s too bare, too vulnerable. Skin is easily pierced, he needs protection. Khan turns back, looking at him with an expression Jim can’t see from where he’s standing.

“Bones, _run_ ,” Jim urges.

“I won’t let you do this Jim,” Bones says, shaking his head, “you run,” he huffs.

“I’m not going anywhere without you,” Jim counters.

“How touching,” Khan smirks.

Jim darts over to Carol’s body, kneeling by her in order to yank the knife from her temple and turning back to face Khan, but Khan’s got another knife and it’s hurtling towards Jim and he can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t _think_. He looks down to see the hilt of the blade sticking out of his stomach, blood seeping through the grey material of his fleece.

“Jim!” Bones roars, rushing over to him, not even hesitant to turn his back on Khan who could have any number of more knives hiding where neither of them can see.

Jim shakes his head, tries to push Bones away when he crouches beside him, hands pressing firmly over the wound, around the blade. Jim tries to tell Bones _no_ , tries to tell him to _go_ , but he can barely breathe. He feels winded, and dizzy, swaying on his knees.

“No, Jim,” Bones urges, “keep your eyes open, please, please, don’t shut those baby blues, don’t you leave me.”

“Bones,” Jim shudders, blood bubbling up his throat, his chest is heaving irregularly, eyes glassy, “Bones,” he repeats.

“No,” Bones urges, pressing more firmly to the wound, Jim makes a grunt of discomfort, attempts to shake his head but everything is just swimming, so unclear, so confused. He’s floating, he’s sure, in that river downstream, but it’s summer, no snow, just bright blue skies and an iridescent myriad of colours reflected on the water’s surface, _too_ bright almost; otherworldly. He can see the blue feathers of a kingfisher, the red and pink fluttering wings of butterflies. He’s only ever seen butterflies on Dehner’s dresses, Jim thinks they look prettier in the sky, and prettier still against the creamy tan of Bones’ skin.

Jim can hear him laughing, it sounds like fairy dust, tinkling over him, coaxing him to slumber, wrapping him up tight in silk and velvet blankets.

“Jim!” Bones is shaking him, tear tracks staining his cheeks, they look grey, not pink and flushed in the sunlight. Everything is grey, even the snow has lost its innocence.

Khan’s black eyes: lit with coal; right from the mines of district twelve; Jim knows that fire well: Hellfire; the darkness that ripped his father away from him. He steps closer. Jim sees the glint of Christine’s knife in the side of the rucksack, he reaches forward, hand grabbing round the hilt and he throws it, wincing as the knife in his own abdomen shifts.

He hears knees hit the ground.

He hears the cannon.


	5. Rage, Rage Against the Dying of the Light

Jim no longer stands alone.

Bones is holding him close, sobbing as the life ebbs from Jim. But Jim will sleep sound tonight, sound in the knowledge that danger no longer lingers, that Bones will be safe.

 _He’ll kiss you on the forehead_ , Jim remembers, and he smiles. The Games haven’t gone as expected.

“I fell for you,” Jim whispers, his breathing slow and lethargic.

“Shh,” Bones’ voice shakes, “hold on, Pike might send something, just please hold on.”

Jim hears the hovercraft, watches as Carol and Khan’s body are lifted into the sky. The clouds have cleared, it’s blue again.

“Don’t leave me,” Bones whispers - begs, pleads, _demands_ -“please don’t go.”

 Jim feels a tear hit his cheek as Bones settles him onto his back, he pulls the gauze out of the rucksack, trying to stem the bleed. Jim can’t really see what’s happening, his sight slowly waning, colour dwindling to black, but he can feel Bones’ hands – not so steady, not how Jim remembers them.

He lets himself fade into the memory of Bones’ hands on his skin, entwined fingers, thumb soothing circles into his wrist, the back of his knuckles running over Jim’s cheek. He remembers the feel of Bones’ lips. He craves it again, his dying wish.

“Kiss me,” he murmurs, blood gurgling over his accent, spilling from the side of his mouth.

Jim opens his eyes wide, sees Bones' outline, feels the soft pad of his thumb wipe away the blood, lips pecking the other side of Jim’s mouth.

Bones raises his lips to kiss Jim’s forehead.

 _He’ll kiss you on the forehead_ , Jim thinks, _because he loves you._

_He trusts you._

Jim’s hand comes up to his throat, pulling weakly at the chain, feeling the thin pendant against his fingertips.

“You were right,” Jim whispers, “I got good luck.”

“No, Jim,” Bones’ voice cracks, like shattering ice.

“Hmm,” Jim counters, nodding, drifting… “I got you.”

“Jim,” he can _hear_ , but he can’t remember how to respond, can’t remember words or phrases, his mouth moves, the flick of his tongue against his teeth might resemble, _love you_. Bones holds onto his shoulders, he’ll have blood all over him, Jim thinks, red everywhere, like cherries and roses and… Bones is kissing his cheek, murmuring a litany of pleas and promises.

But Bones will be fine, Jim’s certain. He is safe now, and he is untarnished by these cruel Games. _The Games_ , Jim remembers, _Bones has won_. Seven will once again mean something. Bones will _mean_ something. And maybe Jim might too.

“I love you too,” Bones whispers, “I need you to stay with me, I need you here.”

But Jim knows he can’t stay, wishes he could explain as much to Bones. It’s not that he _wants_ to go, he wants to stay here with Bones forever, wants to see the turning of Spring, wants to see the buds open and hear the birds chirp.

He inhales, squeezing Bones’ forearm, craning his neck to kiss Bones’ jaw.

He exhales.

The cannon sounds. 


End file.
